“Congratulations on binding your first soul. Please, sit.”

A girl, a woman in her late twenties, sits on a rocking throne. She wears a red, flowing garment like a river of blood. That is not hyperbole. A pool of blood contained in a magical robe rests on her body. Perched on her head is a plastic princess crown studded with fake jewels.

In one hand she holds a scepter or rod. The traditional symbol of power or supreme political office, her scepter is gold studded with actual jewels. Real power, fake crown, and clothes of blood. Completing the ensemble is a cluster of slender stainless-steel chains wrapped around her fist. The chains lead behind her to a cluster of women and one man, all clothed, but not with much. Their heads are bowed.

“Who are you?” I ask.

“Please, sit.”

Her voice is average but for one detail. One would expect a lady of evil to have a high-pitched prepubescent voice. Hers is not. One would expect Lord Darkskull’s voice to be deep and gravelly as if he needed to clear his throat. Hers is not. Her voice is average, even polite, except for one detail. Under that normal human woman’s voice are thousands of insects, chittering.

I take a seat on the hard chair. The table between us is a plain desk, like an office space. The walls are not stone or wood as one would expect. They are drywall. And indeed, the room we are in is an office. The lone light comes from an oil lamp on the table between us. The yellow glow brings out an eerie richness in the blood. The figure facing me, their clothes, the slaves behind them, and the oil lamp on the table, combined with the anachronistic sheetrock walls, makes the overall atmosphere foreboding.

I realize neither of us has spoken for a minute. The woman seems to be… I dunno. Studying me? Waiting?

“Congratulations on making your first soul bind,” the woman says. Behind her voice is the sound of leaves scraping together. “You are now eligible to choose a second lifeblood miracle.”

“A what?” I look at the front of her robe. Not out of lust. It’s because I can’t raise my eyes to her face. I’m trying, sure, but my head hurts. Every time I look at her face my vision clouds. I can look past her at the women and one overweight, aging man. I can see the chains becoming thicker as they rise to the slaves’ collars. I can see every detail in the room except the woman’s face. I assume she is a woman from her voice and curves. But for her voice, the illusion is convincing.

The voice may be an illusion; the insects could be the real thing. The curves could be the robe not resting flat. There may be a man under that garment for all I know. Regardless, she’s speaking.

“…miracles cost health. You have unlocked a new, special class. You have been wanting one, yes? You may choose miracles that heal. You have desired to be a healer. Choose Life Transference and you may transfer your hit points to anyone you wish.

“Up to a third of one’s health at the cost of ten percent.” With the hand holding the chains, she opens her fist. I see the chains wrapped around her skin like a glove. No, that’s not right. The chains tunnel through her skin like worms. They’re in her. She taps the table. “These are the miracles available to the class.”

The table’s surface, the cheapest laminate money can buy, ripples like a pond disturbed. Words and images appear. I see stat blocks and descriptions of miracles accompanied by flavor text. One-half of the images are data. The other half, taking up more than half the space, are class guides. I skim through the text with my finger. The surface is laminate wood, but the pages move as one would expect on an eReader.

The class is white text, thus ‘normal.’ But the miracles are all cast from hit points, thus ‘red.’ The list of lifeblood miracles is extensive. Not as many as a wizard’s library or a sorcerer’s toolbox. It seems the list is more like a handful of gadgets worn on a utility belt. The class is complex, but the guides are comprehensible.

The class is tailored to one’s specifications, similar to how distinct roles may be achieved from a skills-based, classless MMO. It is a delightful setup. And if one must have a bound soul to access it—somewhat rare. I have no idea how rare that miracle is, but the ceremony alone is special.

“Is there a miracle that gives stamina regeneration?” I look at the woman. My forehead pulses with pain. I avert my eyes before I can register the face. Oh look, what… average-looking slaves they have. They are not anime hotties or runway models. These slaves are unglamorized people. Hairy, and pudgy, the women have cellulite, which they must feel self-conscious about but to most men is invisible.

“Try this.” The chains clink as they move their hand. One miracle is magnified.

[Lesser Regeneration]

Effect: Allows the caster to regenerate one point of health, stamina, or mana per second per level of this miracle. Resource regenerated may be transferred to bound souls.

Requirements: must possess at least one bound soul. Must have health, stamina, or mana. Limited to one resource per selection of this miracle. Must have 10 points in the associated Attribute.

Type: Active

Activation Time: 1 second

Cost: 5% of maximum health reserved. Reserved health is not regenerated while the miracle is active. Regenerating multiple resources requires multiple castings.

“Powerful,” I say. “And what’s the cost of choosing this?”

“There is no cost,” they shake their head. “Taking the class is not required, but it helps. Skills can offset or lower the cost. Or perform other functions.”

“All right. Um,” I look over the options. One of the class guides has exactly the information I want and how to get it. If I take this class, I can become a health-based healer. Dangerous but much more powerful than a mana or stamina healer. The caveat, judging by the miracles’ requirements, is that I must bind more souls to access more miracles. To grow my power, I must become a slaver. A soul-enslaver.

“I want the stamina variation of the [Lesser Regeneration] miracle,” I hesitate. “But I don’t want to take the class.”

In my peripheral vision, I see the female face blink. She shifts position. Behind her, one or two of the slaves raise their chins. I see a female face with almond-shaped eyes.

“Are you certain?” the lady in blood asks. She adjusts the sleeves of her robe. Folds of blood swirl from the motion. “This choice cannot be undone. Skills may be lost, and classes renounced. Miracles are permanent. Is this your final decision?”

I look over the wide selection. There is a miracle that allows one to make weapons from their health. There is one that allows me to cast arcane spells from health, bypassing those spells’ mana restriction. Another allows me to enact super-powerful summoning or conjuration rituals. ‘Blood magic’ is an umbrella term with many fields and facets. Lifeblood miracles are one field. The number of miracles… the toolbox versus the library.

“Yep, I want that one.”

“Why?” The woman looks at me. The headaches fade a bit, enough to see the pools of infinite darkness where her eyes should be.

“Well,” I start. “Is this a test?”

There is a pause.

“No,” the woman says.

“Okay. Then I want the stamina version of [Lesser Regeneration].”

“I understand. It will be done. Which hand do you write with?”

I hold up my left hand.

“Prepare yourself,” the woman intones.

I scream. Searing pain lances up my arm. I seize my arm as if to shield it. I can feel something carving my skin as a stylus does to a clay tablet.

“Pathetic,” the woman comments. “Have you never received a tattoo?”

“No,” I shout. The pain begins subsiding. I take my hand away. The underside of my forearm has two designs. One is located near my wrist. The design is a black circle with a name carved around the rim: Cassandra Archstar. Under the previous circle design is a small picture of a pair of lungs.

I’ve always wondered why health regeneration was symbolized by a trio of ‘+’ signs. The obvious answer is that it relates to the Red Cross organization and doctors being associated with that symbol. That is an easy answer to a difficult question. But stamina regeneration is different.

The most common image on a search engine is a green lightning bolt enclosed by a circle. The lightning bolt could symbolize energy, and thus an energy meter. But the symbol on my arm is not that. Nor is it a chloranthy flower.

The symbol is a pair of lungs. There is no plus sign or dynamic change. There is a simple pair of stylized human lungs in standard black ink.

“[Lesser Regeneration],” I whisper. The tattoo pulses with pain in time with my heartbeat. I see my health, already down ten percent from Cassandra, drop another five percent. But my stamina bar now has a halo around it. The green meter refills. I cancel the miracle. The effect ends, but my health does not regenerate.

“If I cast the miracle when I’m under my max available health, will my current health go down?” I look at the woman’s neck.

“Yes.” She shakes her head. “It is cast from your maximum health, not your present. But it requires a percentage of your current health. Pay attention to their costs. It may be more beneficial to cast some when your health is lower. But remember this: if your health drops to zero, you die.”

“And death is permanent.”

“Yes.”

I flex my fingers. This was a good decision. Dangerous, yes, but a good decision overall. I need the energy to cast spells. Eating food and sleeping can restore it, as can potions or other things. Yet, a miracle is more useful between dungeon battles. But I decided I was done with adventuring.

Well, it pays to keep my options open. I shrug.

“Can I go, now?”

The woman nods. She snaps her fingers, rattling the chains. The drywall breaks. The walls disintegrate as thousands of insects with dark wings take flight, soaring into a sunless, starless sky. The moon’s milky light bathes the valley. The insects don’t buzz like bees. Their wings move with a sound like leather snapping.

I wake.

I am back in reality. The box is still destroyed. The walls are gone. Two thick crossbow bolts of alien metal are impaled in my bed. My health is still low, but my stamina is full. Satisfactory. My stamina doesn’t take long to regenerate. One point of Ki and Vigor corresponds to ten points of energy and health. I have 10 points in Vigor and 8 in Ki. 100 points of health reduced by 20% for 2 known miracles and 5% for one miracle active gives me an overall maximum health of 75 points. Unsatisfactory.

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Well, at least my stamina is full. Energy rushes through my body. After my long sleep, I could conquer anything. Feeling around, I grab my pillow. I use it like a broom to sweep some of the glass away. I don’t know what’s waiting for me on the other side but keeping my blanket might be beneficial.

I inch along the ground. The dust and dirt stain the fabric, but it can be washed. Of greater worry is all the glass. There are too many shards to avoid. Many are too small to see. Some chunks are as large as my fist, as jagged as knives. I use my pillow to shove them out of the way. My blanket gets used as a carapace as I crawl.

I make it to the border of the box. I must get over the edge and the jagged teeth in the way. I lay the pillow down and scoot over it. The pillow was a loyal object—no, a thing, no, a friend—a loyal friend. It served me well and cushioned my dome, despite being thin. But to escape this place, I must sacrifice it. The glass embedded in the box’s rim cut into the pillow. My weight forces the softish thing into the teeth. It is shredded.

I am out of the box. I have—no, I don’t have any spells that can help with this. I push through the field of glass using the blanket as a shield. I don’t lift it, I shove. I don’t trust the glass not to cut into the material if I lay on top of it. Better to shovel it aside. I keep crawling.

I hear a sound from behind. Freezing, I look over my shoulder. A face appears in the door’s porthole. Panic and worry give way to alarm, then anger. The mouth moves. The wheel on the door turns, but a beam and rocks block it. I wriggle across the floor, moving faster. I give up trying to push through the glass and crawl over it.

The sharps sides catch the blanket. With my weight pressing down and the shards jabbing up, the material is cut. It tears but I hold on. We’re almost there. I reach out a hand. I touch the broken living rock of the transplanted cave.

Someone slams into the door behind me. I chance a look back. Someone big backs up and charges. The beam blocking the door shifts.

I grab the edge of the rock with both hands. I still have the blanket protecting me, or what’s left of it. I lever myself up. I see light. I duck my head and move.

I hear the door open. The beam shifts.

“Push through,” a male voice bellows. “He’s escaping.”

If it was to another world. I crawl through the hole. The sides are not as sharp as the glass, but rougher. The blanket catches. It was not a good blanket, to begin with. It was thin, cheap, and rough. But it served me well. And now it gives its life to help me escape. I will mourn thee, blanket, as I mourn thy brother, pillow.

A cloud of dust is in the way. I forget to hold my breath and inhale. I am overcome by a moment of coughing. Through the haze, I keep crawling. The blanket falls to tatters. I crawl over the rough stone on my hands and knees. My pants tear on the rock. I hear the steel beam crash to the ground. Glass crunches. I hear heavy footfalls. Terror seizes me. I lunge for the outside, for freedom, and fingers wrap around my ankle.

“Get back here,” voices shout.

“No,” I yell. My fingers catch the lip on the outer side of the tunnel. I am almost free. I haul myself forward, but the guy refuses to let go.

“It’s over, boy. Don’t make this more difficult.”

We struggle for what seems like an eternity, but I know it to be a moment. More fingers seize my pants leg.

“I’ve got him.”

“Pull.”

I am no match for their strength. Therefore, I turn to the one tool I’ve been able to rely on. My power, in my way. I roll over as the guards haul me backward. My open hands greet them as if to receive the polished steel cuffs. Two red-faced guards glare at me with hate. As they see my hands, their eyes widen.

Honeycomb covers my left hand down to the elbow. Soft, brown chocolate covers my right hand. The spells are on the tip of my tongue. Stinging bugs hatch from holes along one arm.

“[Swarm of Hornets],” I scream. “[Chocolate Dart].”

A cloud of insects attack one guard’s exposed face and neck. The other guard throws up his arms as if to ward off the lump of chocolate pummeling his face. Both men howl.

My stamina drains. “[Chocolate Dart].” A bar-shaped lump hits one man square in the mouth. He bends over, vomiting to clear his esophagus even as he is stung. Across the room, more guards spill through the door.

“[Swarm of Hornets],” I intone. The men shield their faces and bullrush me. “[Chocolate Dart].” The simple solution is run. That’s the rational one. It’s been ingrained into every person’s mind. If bees attack, head for the water. The guards are too panicked to care. They run around flailing.

More screaming results. One guard trips over my pillow. He slips on a chunk of glass and falls the right way onto the exposed steel of the box’s wall. I will never forget the cracking sound his head makes.

My stamina drains. I cast the spell again. A focused cloud pursues the guards out of the room and into the rest of the complex. The miracle is still active. My stamina regenerates. I gasp for air. Some of the bugs decide to rest on me. Some decide to buzz past me and make for freedom. 80 points, 80 seconds from zero. But zero equals coma. My casting has not taken me that low, forty or thirty points at the lowest. In less than a minute, I’m at full energy again.

With renewed strength, I conjure the bugs again. I don’t have a direction in mind. They seem to understand that, and their anger subsides. I rise and crawl through the tunnel. Brown and yellow insects land on my back, shoulders, and head. They make my skin crawl.

Hornets are larger than wasps. I’d have preferred a spell that conjures wasps because they are more aggressive. But hornets are larger, thus their stings are more painful. Wasps are more common in residential areas, enough to garner a reputation in middle-class suburbs. Hornets are less common. But hornets are what I have. And pain is more important than aggression right now. I ignore the cloud and keep crawling.

My stamina fills. I reach the edge of the little tunnel and stick my head out. I see a dark sky covered with brown clouds. Snowflakes cover the ground like a dusting of powdered sugar. Between freedom and I are several fences topped with coils of razor wire. At least one of them is electrified. Manicured grass fills the lawn. I look left and right. No guard towers or patrols. But from somewhere deep in the complex, an alarm is blaring.

I take my first deep breath of air in weeks. The air isn’t clean. Smog and pollutants have poisoned it. Even out here there’s a haze over the sky, wherever ‘here’ is. I exit the tunnel and fall into the grass in an undignified heap. I could sink my feet into this grass. It’s nice and thick. Standing, I do that. The hornets feel the breeze at the same time I do. They take flight.

I summon more hornets, more out of satisfaction to see my stamina rise afterward. I jog to the fence and look both ways. I tap it with the back of my hand. It isn’t electrified. I don’t see any guard towers. No guard towers on top of the building, either. But that’s good. I can’t waste time looking for an opening. A prison like this isn’t going to have one. My spells won’t work.

Won’t they? In the dreamworld, I warped iron. The spell I used—the spell description specified it moved a small amount of the fantasy elements: air, water, earth, or fire. But the thing is none of those are real elements. I finger the metal. A steel alloy? I could shape pure iron. Can I shape dirt?

“[Shape Element].” I gesture at the ground. Nothing happens. Drat. Does the spell lock itself in when used? Or does the problem lie with me? Tolvern was a fire mage. I am a scholar. I hold the fence. “[Shape Element].” Nothing happens.

An alloy, then. Duh. I look up, dread filling me. The only way out is forward. Grasping the fence with my toes, I start the climb.

It isn’t tall. The real danger comes from the rings of razor wire at the top. I scale the fence and stop. Now, getting through razor wire requires a blanket or rug. Something big and heavy needs to weigh down the rings enough that one can crawl over them. My blanket is gone. I reach through and over one of the coils. A hornet buzzes my head.

Huffing with annoyance, I look around. But there are no bugs.

“Don’t move,” someone says over the intercom. “We have a rifle on you. Get down on the ground, or we’ll shoot.”

Where? Ah, there. Now that I’m high enough, I can see the guards patrolling the roof. Not patrolling so much as aiming. Too far for hornets. Even if I had a levitation spell, there are multiple fences between this one and freedom. Levitating past them would have been an option, but I lost that spell with the [Arcanist] class. And I’m visible. Sensors are everywhere. The fences’ real purpose is to slow me down while the snipers aim.

“We will kill you,” the voice yells. “Get down. On the ground.”

I take a deep breath and sigh. Live today. Fight tomorrow. I climb down from the fence. Instead of immediately faceplanting, I lean against it and cross my arms. I stare up at the many guns trained on me, my defiance fading.

Cars approach from both sides. Armed men jump out. Big guns are trained on me. I raise my hands, but that only agitates them.

“Get down on the ground.”

“Don’t move.”

“Get down on the ground.”

“Place your hands behind your back.”

Noise. I hate noise. The cacophony is more debilitating than the multiple tasers that tear through me. What does it feel like to be hit by a taser? Imagine being hit by a string of Christmas lights. Thousands of them, at the same time. Physical damage, yes, and painful. But the noise is, in my opinion, worse. Something hard hits me. The tasers end, but the beating begins. Because I am weak, it isn’t long before darkness ensues.

-

I don’t dream this time. Steel bites into my wrists and ankles. I don’t cast any more spells.

“I don’t know why the warden wants this kid alive,” a male voice growls.

I can’t see through the bag over my head. I don’t move as two pairs of arms carry me down a hallway.

“I dunno. Magic sparkle?” the other guard laughs. “Maybe he charmed her.”

That’s a good idea. Make a mental note: learn charm spells.

“I’d like to see him charm me.” Guard one says. “I wish he’d try to make a break for it. Give me a reason to shoot him.”

“Should’ve shot him when we had the chance. Too bad the warden called it off.”

“Why did she do that?”

“I dunno,” guard two grunts.

“We know you’re awake, kid. You can stop pretending.”

I keep pretending.

“We’re here.”

The bag is removed. I put a little weight on my feet. In front of me is a space smaller than a cell, but larger than a coffin. It is a box. The ceiling is too low to stand up in. The far wall is a bit longer than I am tall. There is no bed or pillow. There is a lidded bucket for business. The shackles are removed. I rub my wrists, conscious of the many guards watching.

“Take his clothes, too.”

I don’t fight it. My shirt, pants, and drawers are cut off from me. I am shoved forward. I bend at the waist to get into the space, thinking now is not the time for rebellion. I am rewarded with a boot to my back.

One of the guards presses a button on the wall. Steel bars overlaying a plastic sheet slide down from the ceiling. I cross my legs for modesty. The sheet fades to an opaque white. I am left alone in a tiny box not much bigger than a coffin. There are two holes in the wall. One will dispense water into a cup. The other dispenses feed into a bowl. No utensils.

No books. No toiletries beyond a roll of toilet paper. No flushable toilet. No shower. No… anything. I’m in the modern version of an oubliette: a capsule hotel without the ‘hotel.’ I’ve always wanted to stay in one. But now that I’m here? Eh.

I cancel the miracle. The beating I received should have killed me. But because of the System, I’m still alive. My health is in the single digits, but I appear to be fine.

A light is implanted in the ceiling. There is no switch to turn it off. It makes an irksome buzzing sound. I won’t be getting much sleep while that is active. I look around the capsule and sigh.

I should have stayed under the bed. Fewer people would have died. I don’t have actual knowledge of how many people died. But given the circumstances and what those spells are supposed to do…

The memory of that guy’s head hitting the glass. The sound it made. I shudder.

I guess I’m lucky I’m still alive. I don’t feel lucky. I guess I should be grateful that there is someone much higher up the ladder trying to keep me from being executed. Thanks a lot, Carmine. But I’m not grateful. I’m tired. My stamina—or energy—is full. This is a different sort of weariness. Part of me wishes I could go to sleep and rest without dreaming.

I could but doing so means giving up my one escape. I’d be trapped here. I don’t… I won’t survive prison. It isn’t natural to keep one locked in a box, debt to society be damned. If I must be in chains—the word ‘chains’ sounds disgusting. I don’t want to say it. I don’t want to be associated with it. I don’t want to imagine or feel manacles on my body ever again.

I was chained.

The knowledge haunts me. In most societies, prison is supposed to reform an individual. Not so in mine. We have a system based on punishment. Prisoners are given enough mental stimulation to ward off madness. But every effort is made to prevent their reentry into society. Do they want an education? That is good, the state will pay for it. But no job that requires a degree will hire someone with a record. Oh sure, a misdemeanor may have a chance. But a felon?

My felony was speaking against the state. I am unemployable. If I ever get out, it will be almost impossible to find a job. Getting food, supporting myself, and getting back on my feet. The simple act of showering in private seems like heaven. When I eventually commit another crime to eat, I’ll end up right back here. And they will say they were right to punish me. That my prison time, my punishment, is deserved.

Even though the entire system from top to bottom is designed for it. Private prisons are businesses that make more money from the state depending on how many inmates they house. They then spend that money lobbying for more rights or harsher sentences. Private prisons used to be an epidemic, but most have been shut down. Since the Food Reform Act went into effect, there haven't been as many prisoners anymore. Granted, there aren’t many seniors either. They get euthanized when they hit a certain age. They drain more resources than they provide.

“I should have taken Carmine’s offer.”

I know that now. Forget the consequences to my mental health. I’ve always known what was in the red rice, we all have. We don’t like to acknowledge it. I wanted to cling to whatever scrap of humanity or ignorance I had left.

I let my head hit the rear wall. My health drops to a sliver. I have three points remaining. Three little numbers of red are all that stand between me and annihilation. It seems so arbitrary. My physical appearance is whole. I look healthy. But because my hit points are low, I’m almost dead.

With nothing better to do, I slouch down and sprawl out on the floor. I spread my arms. I can touch both sides of the capsule. It may appear to be a capsule, but it feels like a cage.

Eight hours of rest and I’ll be fit as a fiddle. Time to sleep. This time without [dreaming].