Prowess increased. Conjuration Prowess: Apprentice. Wand Prowess: Apprentice.

The air is cool, and air-conditioned. It smells of antiseptic chemicals. I don’t detect movement or anything. But then, I’m not schooled in that area. I open my eyes. The world is blurry, as expected. But at least I can see. My health and stamina are full; I’ve survived my brush with death. I try to rise.

“Ah, you’re awake.” A middle-aged man enters through the open door. It’s the man from before, except this time he’s wearing a nice plaid button-down. “How do you feel?”

The bracelet is still hugging my ankle, firm like a blood pressure cuff. My gear is missing. While my health and stamina are full, I don’t feel at ease. The spells I learned come to mind, manifesting as alien equations and weird symbols. Even weirder are the glowing monstrous sentinels standing guard over the walls. I take a deep breath and close my eyes. At the count of five, I exhale.

“I’m alive,” I say. I open my eyes and study the man. He perches on a stool opposite me. “Thanks.”

“You are welcome,” he says. Gesturing at my ankle he says, “Would you care to explain that?”

“Nope,” I say. “I’m surprised you guys didn’t remove it, seeing as how you took the rest of my gear.”

“Well, we weren’t sure what to do with you. The mission remains neutral. We don’t take sides in any of the local conflicts. If a wanted criminal comes to our door, we turn them away.” He shifts his weight, as if uncomfortable. His eyes have trouble meeting mine. “Given what happened, that wasn’t an option. But now, I must ask.”

“I’m not ‘wanted’ in the sense that I’m on the run. I haven’t done anything.” I sit up.

He looks me in the eye and waits.

The silence stretches.

I shift on the thin mattress, awkward. Still, he stares at me. Silent. Waiting.

“The world I come from, they have secret laws against asking questions,” I blurt out. “I wrote my dissertation on the idea that there were other worlds, and that got me arrested. I was supposed to be here for like a minute. But then I forgot and wandered off.”

“So, what I’m hearing is, you had no business at the Spiral Knight guild,” the guy says. He nods as if something has been confirmed. “I’m going to do you a favor. I’ll walk you to the door and give you your gear. But I won’t alert the city guard.”

“Have I done something to offend you?” I snap. I frown at him.

“No.” He shakes his head as if embarrassed. “But we don’t want your kind around here.”

“My kind?” I say, my voice rising. “What does that mean?”

“Criminals. Wanted men.” He looks at me not with embarrassment, but with cold judgment. “You need to go back and turn yourself in. Go sit in timeout for a few years and get your life straightened out.”

“They were going to execute me,” I whisper. “The needle was in. Poison was flowing down the pipe when they discovered I was right.”

“Then you need to go.” His expression darkens.

It’s like he’s not hearing the injustice and instead focusing on the ‘law’ part. Why should they hold me accountable for breaking an unjust law? Why should they force anyone to obey?

“What gives you the right to judge me for something you know nothing about?”

He opens his mouth, but I bull ahead, blunt.

“I saved three of your girls. And the Spiral Knight. I didn’t run like the other kids did. I stuck around and helped. Because of me, all four of them are alive today.”

“I’m not going to argue with you,” he snaps. “Let’s go.”

And so, he rises from his seat. I’m too angry to do more than glare at him, but he doesn’t care. He seizes me by the arm and drags me out of the bed. Without ceremony, I’m hauled out of the room, around the corner, and out the front door. I struggle, of course, but I have a scholar’s physique. This man may be fat, but a good percentage of it is muscle. He manhandles me like one of those girls. Effortless.

“Open the door,” he shouts. One of the local porters jumps to obey. They haul open the great aluminum door. He stops on the concrete ramp and shifts his weight, throwing me out of his compound. I land in a heap on hard-packed dirt.

“My gear,” I yell. “I need my gear.”

“You stay there,” he jabs a finger. I spot my stuff in a pile on the veranda. I try to move around him. He punches me in the gut. I double over. He shoves me back. “Stay down, kid.”

I cradle my stomach. Homeless bums dot the street. They look up with detached interest at the scene. The man returns to the veranda. I see him from my position and stand. One of the porters appears in front of me, holding a weapon.

The man returns with a dirty bag. He upends it on the ramp, dumping my stuff all over the ground.

“There you go, kid. Get lost.”

The porter starts dragging the door back into place.

“You know, they have Christians in my world too,” I yell at him. “If anyone says, ‘I love God,’ and hates his neighbor, he is a liar. For he who does not love his neighbor cannot love God.’ First John chapter four. Religion of love my ass. It’s nice to see hypocrisy extends to all worlds.

The porter glances at his boss. The bigger man’s face turns red. He starts shaking. I expect to get punched, but I’m too angry to care. My glasses are still bent, hanging from my face. My health went down a chip, again. And I have no reward. I expected to get praised for bringing home the girls. Instead, I’m kicked to the curb. All because of this stupid ankle bracelet.

The moment passes. The man shakes his head.

“You’re a worthless sewer rat. Go back to whatever hole you crawled out of. May God have mercy on your soul.” He slams the door shut in my face.

I take a deep breath and pick up my items. They’re all accounted for. I suppose that’s something. The local religious nuts may be assholes, but at least they aren’t thieves. Funny how that works. ‘You shall not steal.’ Exodus 20:15. It’s acceptable to pray for poor people while spitting on the convicted.

I gather up my equipment. I jam my wand in my pocket where I can reach it. I’m wishing I didn’t give away that spellbook right now. I could use a damaging fireball. Insect swarm is nice, but it does damage over time. It’s more about distracting an opponent than killing.

Oh well. I set off down the street. I don’t have any goals in mind. For the first time in my life, I’m aimless. Oh wait, I still have those IDs. If I turn those in, the Guild might pay a bounty. Should do that. Offload this stuff while I still can. Once I’m there and certified, I can start planning my next move.

-

A frigid drizzle comes down from the sky. Lacking an umbrella or coat, it soaks me. At least the nastier stuff is washing off. Brown stains run down the gutter. I tilt my head back and close my eyes for a moment. The rain is awful. Cold, wet, stinking of me. But the water is clean. In my world, it’s polluted.

I stand outside the door to the Adventurer’s Guild. The sign on top reads: Imperial Registry House of Independent Itinerant Agents. I remember what happened the last time I was here. They threw me outside in the mud. I hear heavy footsteps and step aside.

The door bangs open. A troop of muscled giants walks out. Each one holds a weapon as big as me. They seem to take no notice of me. The big men ignore the drizzle and stomp down the street. The crows watch them pass.

I take off my glasses and bend them back into place. It’s far from perfect. But it’ll do for now. I can see, at least. I make a mental note to look for some type of indestructible eyewear. Or a spell of repairing.

Well, can’t procrastinate any longer. I push open the door. The cold, dirty atmosphere of the Docklands is banished by the light and warmth of a roaring fire. Laughter and conversation fill the air. The room seems even more packed. A few faces turn at my entrance and look away. Nothing to see here besides one more mud-spattered traveler.

I walk down the center aisle. Multiple people gag as I walk by. My nose must have turned off some time ago. I smell something foul, but it’s suppressed. I stride up to the receptionist’s desk and wait.

“Hello,” the secretary says. The lizard-woman looks up at me, blinks, and sits up straighter. She glances at one of the many bouncers scattered around the room. “You’re back.”

“I’d like to register as an adventurer,” I say. Several faces nearby turn to me. “Doctor Lawrence, certified Clay-Rank by the Spiral Knight’s Spiral Order.” I slide over my plastic card.

“Do you have a class?” The receptionist asks.

I bring up my character sheet. I don’t know or remember the official term for it. This world isn’t a video game, and I’m not someone’s self-insert character. But since that’s what I’m used to calling it, that’s what I’ll use in this world. My status screen.

A black window appears in the air with a neon-green border. White text fills it in neat blocks.

Archaeologist Level 1.

Abilities: Academic Discourse, Analyze, Detect Trap, Sense Value.

Skills: None.

Scholar Secrets: Quick Study.

Prowess:

Simple weapons, whips, rapier, short swords, longswords, short bows, handguns, and rifles.

Apprentice

Armor: Light

Apprentice

Arcana: Neophyte

Conjuration: Apprentice

Destruction: Neophyte

Divination: Neophyte

Illusion: Neophyte

Transmutation: Apprentice

Unusual Elements: Neophyte

Melee, One-handed Melee, Spiral Knight Shields and Swords: Novice

Spiral Knight Guns: Apprentice

Leadership: Novice

Wand: Apprentice

The lizard-woman receptionist studies my character sheet. She drums her claws on the table. At last, she looks up. Her lips part, showing off many sharp teeth, in what I assume is a smile.

“You were part of the group that made it out of the sewers, right? Four humans and a Spiral Knight?”

“Yup,” I say. “I’d also like to report on two monsters we saw. One was a progenitor rat the size of a van. The other was this roaming fatberg that ate people like a giant slime. The fatberg killed at least two teams. Here’re their IDs.”

I drop six plastic cards on the table. The receptionist’s smile vanishes. I sense a presence to my right and freeze. An anthropomorphic hyena towers over me. A gnoll. He picks up one of the cards, holds it to his nose, and sniffs.

“It’s the party that went missing.” He drops the card. With his long nose, he must pick up all sorts of things. Glancing at me, he says “I sense the truth of what he says.”

The receptionist makes a few marks on her paper.

“Well, we require you to be level two before Clay-Rank status, but your prowess indicates you know what you’re doing. For the IDs, there is no bounty, but their families will be pleased to know—well, they won’t be, but you get the idea.

“Plus, the bounty on reporting new bosses. The giant rat is an Iron-Rank threat. The fatberg is…” she shuffles through a pile of papers. “Bronze-Rank. And the kiddie club sent over your certification this morning. You’re a Squire in their eyes, for whatever that’s worth.”

She drops a handful of silver and copper coins on the desk. I surrender my ID. The new ID I’m given is larger. It has the color of dried mud. Doctor Lawrence, it reads. Clay-Rank. I scoop the coins into my pockets.

“Congratulations,” she says. She sneezes. “Two things. One, may I suggest visiting the baths? They’re not too expensive. Two, if your magic prowess gets up to Broad, you may wish to seek professional training.”

“Thanks,” I say. I crack a smile. Because my face is unused to the gesture, it feels weird. “Do you know where I can get that?”

“Um, the colleges in Zephyr teach Arcana. Now shoo,” she waves her claws. “I have work to do. Next.”

I step aside. I stare at my shiny new ID. I am an adventurer. I look up and stare around the room. Several faces I recognize—the ones who threw me out. This time their expressions are indifferent. Not hostile, at least. I’ll take that as an improvement.

“Hrr, that card,” the gnoll sidles up to me. “Doesn’t make you one of us.” Behind him, several faces look in our direction.

“Oh?” I stare up, up, at him. He’s seven feet tall, and built like a bull. “What am I missing?”

“Let me introduce you to some of your professional colleagues.” The gnoll moves toward the middle of the room. He gestures to an armored man with no visible skin.

“This is Hammerstein, [Brawler Extreme]. And this is Lilith, [Knife Maiden].” The gnoll waves at a nonhuman. Her upper half is human but for a third eye and two tattered wings draped around her shoulders. Her lower half is a mass of fleshy tentacles and suckers.

I activate Analysis. Hammerstein, Level 6 [Boxer], unknown species. Lilith Zhang, female Cecaelia, early-thirties, Level 12 [Shapeless Ninja].

“This is the Stranger, a [Gunslinger].” The gnoll moves to a table on the other side of the room. Three men sit at it. A gunslinger in a dark outfit and black hat, complete with a black coat. Next to him is a masked man in a tight-fitting midnight-blue outfit. And the third is a Victorian-era gentleman in a top hat and macabre opera mask.

“—Gazer the [Unstoppable Ninja], and Sir Lance the [Gentleman Duelist].”

???. Male human, middle-aged. Level 15 [Paladin]. Subject appears to have no name. May be a Condition or Skill, may be related to his Class.

Sir Lance, unknown species. Level 9 [Jouster].

Gazer, unknown species, Level 15 [Moon Shadow Assassin].

“And then there’s me,” the gnoll spreads his arms. “Chinqua, master archer and level 9 [Hunter of Man].” Male gnoll, early twenties, Level 5 [Hunter].

“It’s nice to meet you all,” I say smiling. I meet their eyes in turn. “I hope one day I can be as cool as you.”

“Hrr, do you know what the difference between us is?” Chinqua swaggers up to me. He grins, showing off a toothy smile. The friendliness may or may not be feigned, but all I see are teeth. “Experience. Armor. Weapons. A mentor to show you around.”

“I take it you’re offering to do that?”

“By a whisker.” He lowers his chin. “Let me show you something, human.” He sidesteps me, drawing a huge arm around my shoulders in the process. I’m steered toward a floor-to-ceiling corkboard that takes up almost the whole wall. Sheets of paper are tacked to it. Dozens of them. It seems to be chaos, but there is a semblance of order.

“Your rank in the Registry allows you to take on requests, yes? But you cannot take requests above your rank.” He gestures at the wall of papers.

The upper half is blank. I suppose that’s where higher-ranked requests—or quests—would go. Clay-Rank is on the bottom, near my knees. Iron is above that and Bronze. Most of the requests are Iron or Bronze. Therefore, barred to me. As I watch, the receptionist tacks two new papers to the board. Two monster extermination requests. I stare at the reward for the fatberg. Twenty silver pieces.

“What… uh… how does the currency system work? Sir?” I add, hopeful.

“Hrr, we use copper, silver, and gold coins, yes? One hundred copper pieces are one silver. Ten silver is one gold.”

I slip my hand into my pocket, where the precious few silver coins are. Copper coins are the size of pennies. Silver coins are as big as an old half-dollar. I wonder how big gold coins are.

“What would you recommend?” I look at the board. There are three requests available for Clay-Rank. None are appealing.

“Take every contract you can or every one you think you can. You might be an adventurer, but you must still eat and sleep, yes? These things cost money. Weapons and gear cost money. Work until you drop, then find a cheap inn to sleep. Wake and do it all over again tomorrow.”

I step forward. The first request is to exterminate giant rats in the sewers. The second is to clear a blocked pipe, also the sewers. The third is clearing a spider nest in someone’s basement. I tug the pages from their tacks.

“I was expecting, I dunno, ‘kill the progenitor rat for five gold.’ Or, ‘investigate strange happenings around town,’ five silver,” I say. “All that work to survive the sewers, and now I must go back into it? To clear a pipe that may be clogged by another fatberg? None of the requests offer more than a few handfuls of copper.”

“I must have killed a thousand giant rats when I started out,” the gnoll muses. He rubs his chin. “It is tedious work. The sewer air is poisonous in many places. You will need a breathing apparatus, yes?”

“How much do those cost?” I ask, dreading the answer.

“Much silver. More, if you wish to replace filters. And you will still need a place to sleep, yes? And food.”

“Doesn’t the Registry have beds available?” I face him. As I do, I look over the packed room and realize what I said.

“If you are injured. Or a traveler. Both are full.” He gives me that toothy grin. “It is not so bad, is it? There are many fine inns in the city. Why, for a few silver you can have a warm bed for the night. For a few more, a hot meal.”

I see where this is going. I’m poor and weak. The requests I can accept pay less than the effort it takes to complete them. That’s why they’re still sitting here despite the packed room. The Iron-Rank ones are not much better. A cursory glance reveals similar things. Silver rewards do not become common until Bronze. And even then, not in large amounts. My stomach twists.

Stolen story; please report.

I can put it down to the Docklands being a transitory land. This is the place where the legends come to relax, not work. Some places like this have a huge, horrible dungeon right outside. But not this town. This is the Green Hill Zone for newbies. As a career, adventuring has a high cost of entry and does not become profitable for some time.

If the dungeon were more difficult... No, that’s not it. The fatberg is as hard as stone, but it moves slow. The giant rat, half-undead, is not a difficult task for an organized, well-balanced party. There is little work to be done here. I can do these tasks, but I won’t get much. They’re a waste of time. I put them back on the corkboard.

“Giving up so soon?” the gnoll warrior crosses his arms. “Is good, yes? Better to return home. Save money. Live.”

“Why are you scaring me off?” I ask, blunt. “What’s your problem?”

The smile vanishes.

“Hrr, you humans walk in here. You think you know everything. You think you have what it takes? You have no place here.” The gnoll walks forward until he looks down at me. “That card does not make you one of us. Get out, human. Your stink burns my nose.”

I look past him to the receptionist. The lizard-woman keeps her eyes on the papers in front of her. I look past his other side. Multiple people have hostile expressions and wrinkled noses. Even the high-levels look—well, not hostile, but not approachable. I see a group of disconsolate men in the corner covered in questionable stuff. Humans. They look at me with something approaching sympathy, but they seem more interested in their cheap drinks.

“I’m not looking for a fight,” I say at the gnoll’s chest.

“Hrr, then get out.”

I hesitate. But in the end, I go. I step outside, this time of my volition. No one throws me in the mud. No one kicks me to the curb. The crows greet me with suspicious, hungry looks. The emaciated ones squawk.

A gray deluge soaks the city. Raw sewage pumps backward from a clogged drain, filling the street with a stink. I spot a man on the other side of the street in non-descript clothes. Black robes, black boots, black hood. He carries a rifle over his shoulder. On any other day, I’d ignore him as part of the city. But his presence is why I notice.

In Chicago, those who arrested me are called Black Robes. If cops are the arm of the law, Black Robes are the poisoned blade in the night. The city ignores them. In Chicago, they’re a common sight. But in the Docklands, they’re new. And this one’s behavior is alarming.

He’s watching me. I can’t see his eyes under that hood. But I’m certain. He stands in an alley, away from the wall. Not in shadow, in the open. His legs are spread. His head is trained on my position. I look both ways. The street is clear. But the guy is still standing there.

It’s a message. And at the same time, it’s not. As far as he’s concerned, I ran away. I’m a wanted man, injustices notwithstanding. He sees me. He’s letting me know it. He’s saying ‘I see you. You have nowhere to run.’ I cast Analysis on a whim.

[Agent], level 9. Male Human.

The Black Robes have Classes. Interesting. But it won’t matter if I can’t get away. The Agent starts walking. Across the street. Toward me. He doesn’t rush. He has all the time in the world. My heart leaps into my throat. Time seems to slow. Do I run? No, he’ll catch me. Where then? I back up. The door is behind me. I grab the handle and shove.

Orange light spills out, revealing his features. He’s no agent I recognize. But now that I’m escaping, he lengthens his stride. I slam the door in his face and lock it. I retreat into the room. There’s a loud sound as his foot connects with the door.

“Hey,” the receptionist yells. “Whoever’s out there—” her voice is drowned out in the ensuing conversation. Lacking lungs, she waves over one of the bouncers. The creature is an anthropomorphic bear. A magnificent specimen with several thick, ropy scars. It walks on hind legs and has five-fingered hands. It stomps past me.

I rush to the bar for the gnoll.

“Hey. Hey, you,” I skid to a stop in front of the giant.

“Hrr, I told you to leave, human.” The creature sneezes. He turns away. All his friends rub their noses. “Get out. I won’t say it again. Or there will be violence, yes?”

“I have four silver and some copper in my pocket. There’s a guy outside in a black robe and hood. Kill him and it’s yours.”

“What business is that of mine?” the gnoll snaps.

The door bangs open. The Black Robe stands in the opening, the bear to one side. All conversation dies. They look at the newcomer. The face under the hood has eyes for me. In their depths, pure hate smolders.

The Black Robe takes a step forward, and the entire room shifts. Next to me, the gnoll puts a hand on his sword. Many warriors do. Half the mages have their wands out. How--? Ah, warrior’s senses. Danger Sense was mentioned earlier. Even if not, many adventurers in fiction get it. It stands to reason a crossroads-world, a crossworld, would have people with the same Skill. The Black Robe is dangerous. And they know.

“There is no fighting here, sir,” the bouncer says. I zero in on him. Level 8 [Warrior], Level 4 [Hunter], Level 2 [Trapper]. Specialization is for insects. But with twenty total levels… still though.

The Black Robe throws his cloak back. From under his coat, he brandishes a firearm. He must be the first person I’ve seen to use one. It is a Heckler and Koch MP5. A full automatic submachine gun, it was first introduced in West Germany in 1966. It was then adopted by militaries and police units all around the Western world. The most common model fires 9mm bullets, has either a capacity of fifteen or thirty rounds, and uses a detachable magazine. It can switch between a semi-automatic or burst mode. The Black Robe levels it at my chest. His expression is emotionless.

I put my hands up. His weapon has a suppressor, but that won’t matter much. The 3-3-3 rule. Most fights take place at a range of three yards, use three bullets, and are over in three seconds. In the next three seconds, they’ll decide whether I live or die.

The Black Robe pauses. He sweeps his gaze from side to side.

“Bureau business,” he says. “Go back to your drinks.”

“Hey pal,” the bear walks up behind him. “The House is a neutral zone. If you have a problem—”

“Friend,” the Black Robe spins on the spot and points his weapon at the bear’s head. “Do you want to die?”

I vault the bar. In the mirror on the wall, I see the Black Robe whirl. A spray of bullets follows me. I hear movement and hunker down, but there’s no need. As per the rule, the fight is over in about three seconds.

“You can come out now,” someone says.

I peek over the bar. The Black Robe is lying on the ground, motionless. A cyborg cradles the MP5. Another cyborg with bladed arms peels off the dirty coat. In moments the dead agent is stripped of his valuables and tossed outside for the crows.

I scoop out my money and hold it up. The bear bouncer waves his paw.

“You don’t want the money?” I ask, stunned.

“He broke the rules,” the bear says. “Keep it.”

“Thanks,” I say. I shove the coins into my pocket.

“Hey kid,” the gnoll says. “Know why he was after you?”

I look up into the creature’s face. His tone is light, his expression—I’m going to give up on that. I’m still new. I can’t read alien faces yet. Still, the bartender is behind me, cursing about his shattered mirror. Multiple pairs of eyes are on me. I’m conscious of the bracelet hugging my leg, hidden by my pants, but its meaning is plain. I swallow.

“No idea.” My lie sounds fake even to my ears. And the gnoll knows it.

“Hrr, I sense you are not telling the truth.”

“Does your nose tell you that or a Skill?” I realize my hands are in the air again and put them down.

“Both. You stink of fear.” The alien regards me for a moment. “You must finish your business in this country, yes? And then flee. That man was a hunter. More will come.”

“Thank you,” I say. And I mean it. That’s as good as I’m going to get. But it’s better than what I deserve. “Is there a back door?”

The bartender points.

I exit through the rear into an alleyway. I don’t spot any Black Robes. On the other hand, if they’re all [Agents], they’ll have invisibility or stealth skills. I need to leave. I set off at a brisk walk.

I come back to the street, thinking I’ll have a better chance of seeing them coming. First stop, city hall. The domed building rises in the distance. I jam my hands in my pockets. The streets are not empty. Like Earth, homeless people litter them. Unlike Earth, there are far fewer.

I turn a corner and come out to the waterfront. Ah, the docks. The key feature of the Docklands. This is a busy section, evidenced by the ships coming and going. Wooden and metal boats load and unload cargo. Dockworkers in thick woolen clothes and rain gear unload frozen fish, crabs, and other seafood. Other ships load up with crates and barrels of goods.

Over there is a fishing trawler made of metal. A little way down is a wooden Age of Sail boat with actual sails. I swear one of the men has a peg leg. I slow as I walk by. I can’t help it. Despite my situation, this is exciting.

Down the street is a vast concrete pier with a steamer loading up passengers. I could board it and vanish to another world. Even if I stowed away and somehow ended up in the brig or coal room, working my way into another world would be a better life than living on the Bureau’s leash.

But I don’t have the guts for that. And I want to learn magic. I want to be an adventurer. I want to make friends and—I pass by the working section and come to a recreational boating section. There is no dividing line or barrier. The thing that separates the industry ships from the yacht club is a concrete pier wide enough for a street and boardwalk. And it is filled with people milling.

I guess milling isn’t the right word. Between the downpour and the crows, the people are hurrying. None of the stalls are open. Few people have umbrellas. Most use a cloak or raincoat. Someone is using the launch to bring in their sailboat. It’s a pretty boat.

The rest of the boats moored here are a spectrum of quality and care. Some are clean and maintained. Others are rusting and discarded. At least, I assume they’re discarded from their present condition. In type, they run the gamut. Sailboats, motorboats. Pontoons, catamarans, gulet, sports, luxury, fishing yachts. All different sizes and kinds. And since this is the “recreational” section of a world devoted to the subject, the docks extend for miles.

I make a right and head down one of the larger streets. The ground here is cobblestone worn smooth. One of the nearby storm drains regurgitates a river of questionable stuff. The road is at a lower elevation than the raised pier, meaning there’s no draining.

The stuff is accumulating on the ground in lakes. I skirt them as much as I can, but there’s no having it. I give up, shrug my thin shoulders, and slog through the mush. My feet and legs are soaked in an instant. My shoes step into something soft. The stink invades my nose, making me gag. I keep walking.

If I stink bad enough, none of the Black Robes will want to get near me. I smirk at that. It’s an interesting, twisted use of the stuff. I hate it as much as the next person. Humor based on it is juvenile. But part of me wonders if it may be possible to harness its power with magic. Spells could be made for resisting…

Instead of a fireball, I could cast a poo ball. Less damage, more horror. Instead of clearing a room full of enemies via murder, I could overload their noses and make them run. I could cast a spell that makes me immune to the stench, and my allies, if I have them. It’s an unconventional, gross style of spellcasting.

But it’s more original. And that’s the important thing. I don’t want to become a standard elementalist or necromancer. Heck, even a red or color-based mage is boring.

It might work in other worlds, but this is my adventure. I must be original. I can start with the archaeologist class, but I should look at finding something rare or unusual. Archaeology has already been done.

I raise my head. The city hall may have been marble at one time. But time and rain have stained it. I climb the steps, feeling my shoes squelch. I try not to think about the stuff on my legs and push open the door.

The inside is much nicer than the outside. Wood paneled floors, wrought-iron chandeliers, electric lamps. It’s a nice place. I pause at the entrance and eye the expensive floor. I’m going to track ‘stuff’ everywhere. The men and women in suits nearby wrinkle their noses at me. I’ve been here five seconds and people are staring.

The guards are eyeballing me. And they’re not being discreet. One of them, an overweight man in a white shirt, ambles up to me. Male human, mid-fifties, [Guardsman], Level 9. I notice the modern handgun on his hip and reassess.

“Can I help you, son?” His tone is polite, his expression neutral but unsmiling.

“I’m looking for prices on real estate. I’m uh, on an errand for my boss.”

“Can I see your Courier’s seal?” he asks without skipping a beat. Courier’s seal? Ah, the local mail carriers must use a system of symbols to prove who they are. A system like that—they’re corruptible, but it must be at least somewhat efficient.

“Um, I don’t have one.”

“All couriers use a seal. Do you have an ID?”

Wordless, I hand over my shiny new adventurer’s badge. Clay-Rank doesn’t seem so important standing next to this guy. It feels new. Like a soldier or cop fresh out of the academy. The guardsman scans it and hands it back.

“All right, you’re good to go. Real estate is down the hall.” He points. “Don’t start anything.”

“I won’t,” I promise. I follow the signs. Guardsmen and women track me across the hall. I try telling myself it’s because I’m covered in stuff, not because I’m a human or anything. More than half the guards here are nonhumans. I spot hippos, rhinos, bears, and fish-people. All anthropomorphic, all of them armed and wearing combat gear. Some of the gear is fantasy, but a lot of it incorporates black panels and ceramic plates.

Real estate consists of a nondescript office with one worker. Plugging their nose, they gesture to a line of pamphlets on a counter and a rather large binder. I open the first pamphlet. The text is in a language I don’t recognize.

“Excuse me, sir,” I say turning to the worker. They drop a sign on the counter and vanish behind a door. “Never mind.” I flip through the remaining pamphlets. Even with my skills, the text is indecipherable. But the pictures are nice.

“Show status,” I murmur. The green-bordered window appears in the air. I ignore it and flip open the binder. “Search function: Help.”

White text appears on the background.

“Use voice,” I order.

“Please?” a female voice says.

“Please,” I hasten to add. Then I blink. “Wait, why are you a female voice? I didn’t think I selected that.”

A female hologram appears on the window. About six inches high, blue skin with black hair, and a conservative outfit, she looks like any Cortana-clone from science fiction.

“It was determined that your personality responds best to an attractive female of similar age. In the cases where a male avatar is required, they must be your elder before you will respond with favor.” The System’s avatar’s face adjusts. It becomes heart-shaped with pretty eyes. It could pass for an anime character. My brain catches up with the speech and I blink.

I’m being manipulated. I lean away from the window.

“How can I help you?” the avatar asks.

“Do you have a name?” I ask. I try not to eye her. Not that there’s much to see. Conservative military officer uniform and all, no camouflage. Still, within the space of that explanation, the avatar’s apparent age reversed by ten years. She could be one of my students. One of my sexy grad students eager to network.

I shake my head. Focus, Lawrence. Here to work, not… think about playing.

“I do not,” the avatar says. “I am an extension of the System that governs this world. I was created to monitor mental health and advise those living here on the best course of action to take regarding their System careers.”

“Okay, let me translate that.” I squeeze my eyes shut. Did her figure alter itself? Yes, it did. Focus. I press my fingers to my forehead and lower my chin. Think. Why do we need the System’s help?

“How may I assist you?” the cool female voice says.

“Please be quiet,” I mumble. “I need to think.”

I rest my elbows on the counter. Time passes. Minutes. Prioritize. The Bureau will find me, sooner or later. I must have bargaining chips. I could remove the anklet, but I know their technology. Such a thing cannot be removed without industrial tools, the results of which can be gruesome. No, I need to bargain.

“There was an [Archaeologist] at the guild,” I say. I picture the character in my mind’s eye. Tan shirt, brown pants, leather duster. She—not he—carried a whip and a revolver. She wore a fedora and a cravat. “[Adventurer Archaeologist], Level 10. Female Stola. What is a Stola?”

“An owl-like species,” the avatar chimes in. “Rapacious and cunning. The species has a reputation for one-sided deals. Many work as either assassins or bankers. Capable of silent flight, can see in the dark, et cetera.”

“What does the System say about humans?” I open one eye. The avatar smiles at me. Yes, her figure has become curvier, though her outfit remains the same. The manipulation is subtle, but it’s there. Focus.

“Humans,” the avatar recites. “Most common species in the universe by virtue of being able to breed with almost anything. May bond with any creature placed in one’s sleeping module, no matter how alien or dangerous. Base human survivability is equivalent to unempowered Makyrs. Humans are noted for their resilience, creativity, implacable determination, intellectual stupidity, and aggressive behavior.

“However, they are at times nonsensical and comedic. Human behavior is thought to be a defense mechanism employed against the order imposed by enlightened, superior species on their way of life.” The avatar’s smile is polite. “Human thought is seen as a disease to be eradicated. However, because humans are so violent and dangerous, the opinions of humans are tolerated in polite company.

“Okay, I get it.” I close my eye and sigh.

“Despite all their negative qualities, in the right circumstances, humans make for powerful allies. It is inappropriate to compare them to fantasy creatures, as such things exist in media and not reality. But a recent poll conducted online had over a thousand sentient species declaring that humans are distant cousins of a race of war-mongering, cannibalistic, nigh-unkillable brutes Tolkien named—”

“Okay,” I say. I rub my eyes. “Enough of the insults. I get it. We’re not liked. Let’s talk about something else.”

“How may I help you?”

“I need an original class. Something that hasn’t been done before,” I mutter. More to myself than her; I’m thinking about all those powerful people I saw. Indiana Jones clones and Space Marines of all stripes. Becoming an [Archaeologist] was a mistake. Can it be rectified?

“I need a list of all the places for sale in the city. Organize by size and square feet. Verticality is appreciated but not required. Ignore cost.” I pause. “There’s a bar near where I came in. I need a list of the buildings within a hundred feet of it, the businesses in each of them, which are for sale, and how much money it would take to buy out the others.”

“Going house-hunting, are we?” the avatar doesn’t emote much. Her body language conveys nothing. Her hands are clasped behind her back, legs together. There’s a circle of blue light a few inches below her. Her feet hang, giving her the appearance of floating.

A list of white text appears in the window. Each property is accompanied by pictures.

“I need a list of all the major power players in the city.” I look through the window, unseeing. “You said the Stola were common as bankers. Is there a banker in the city?”

The avatar opens her mouth.

“Of course, there is,” I say. “And the area where I crawled out of the sewers. It has multiple entrances all over the city. All of them are tight and narrow.

“The place is called the Narrows,” the avatar says. “The population is dense. What passes for the law ends at its entrances. Slavery is practiced. Avoid.”

“Who controls it?” I look at the window. Several pictures of the place appear. The buildings are pancaked together, rising next to, and overlapping each other.

“Multiple factions fight. Mr. Lawrence, it is my professional recommendation that you avoid this area. It brings misery.”

“Who rules it?” I repeat.

“Multiple factions.” The avatar appears to hesitate. More pictures appear. A clan of bear-people, multiple gangs, a few groups of hitters and thieves. And multiple infighting overlords. The most powerful is an aging, decrepit creature. “This monster is reputed to be over Level 20.”

“That’s a face to remember,” I say. “Run through the remaining ones. Please.”

The avatar does so. A female merchant lord, a disgusting Slugman, and a powerful horned satyr. All practice slavery. All are crime bosses with different spheres.

“That’s the Narrows. Who else in the city do I have to know about?”

The avatar runs through a list of less powerful individuals with greater political influence. The city watch is corrupt and authoritarian. The missionaries were good-hearted but also corrupt. The various occupational guilds, the town council, the captain of the watch, et cetera. Powerful people, good and evil like any other town. The ones on top hold onto their positions for decades. Politics is corrupt. Racism is everywhere.

“And there’s a storm coming,” the avatar says. A picture of the harbor appears. The clear water turns cloudy as fingers of pale fog reach from below. Tendrils move to encircle the city.

“So, there’s fog and murky water,” I say. I stretch. “Not a big deal. Most coastal towns are like that.”

“This fog is magical,” the avatar says. “I am the System. Whatever you may think of me, remember this. I am attuned to this world. If I say something is unusual, it is worth paying attention.”

“Noted.” I tune out the window and the avatar. Where was I? “Original. Definition. Not dependent on other people’s ideas, not a copy or imitation, creative and inventive. Barring an original class, I need a rare class. A version of something that hasn’t been done before. The leveling system.” I raise my head.

“Are there… optimum build guides?”

“There are.” The avatar nods. “For a Scholar, there are several. It is inadvisable to become one of the standard adventuring types. As discussed, warriors are table salt. Mages are table pepper. But rogues are bread. There are more roguish or trickster archetypes than any other class.”

“What about white mages?”

“Healing through Arcana is difficult. One must know anatomy, hemomancy or blood magic, and elements of boneshaping or necromancy. It is simpler to follow a god and become a cleric. The theologian class does this but has different restrictions.

“Can I choose my class again? Or do a do-over?” I rake my fingers through my hair.

“No such do-over exists. Selections made for your status, class, and skills are permanent. However,” the avatar pauses as if for effect. “There is a rare item that allows for a full reset. Everything you have gained: Class, Skills, Prowess, Secrets, may be reset.

“One is available at the Mage’s Guild for one hundred thousand gold.”

My jaw drops.

“It is also possible to find the item as a rare drop in high-level dungeons.” The avatar’s lips quirk, making her appear almost sympathetic. “It is disappointing. But all this information is public. May I advise you to return to the Spiral Order headquarters and research?”

“I’m already a rogue without stealth. There are a hundred rogues who can do my job better than I.” I press my forehead against the cool countertop. “Still, the item exists. Which means second chances are possible. I can do whatever I want for now. Build money, research, and save. When I get strong I can do a reset and follow an optimal build guide.”

I must stay one step ahead of the Bureau. Do I return and hope for mercy? Or do I stay until I’m strong?

“You look distressed,” the avatar says.

“I’m way past distressed,” I say. My voice is muffled by the countertop, but the avatar doesn’t seem to notice. “Please copy all my requested information to my phone. Delete whatever you must to make it fit.”

“As you wish.”

In my pocket, my phone grows warm. I wallow for a moment more in despair. It feels like an immense weight rests on my shoulders, though how it got there is anyone’s guess. I want to be free. I want to study magic. I want to have adventures and make friends. I want—I push myself off the counter and leave the room.

“I didn’t need to visit the real estate office to do that, did I?”

“No,” the avatar’s voice emanates from a place over my shoulder. “You may purchase a dwelling from anywhere in the city. The System communicates with the economy, up to a point. But those institutions must exist for the System to use.”

“Fascinating.” Heads turn to me as I enter the main hall. I keep my mouth shut until I’m outside in the rain. The gray downpour reduces visibility. Puddles of slush dot the street. People scurry down the sidewalks under dark cloaks. A horseless carriage rolls past, its driver holding no reins. My stomach rumbles.

“Food is to the left, on Market Street.”

“Where is the Mages Guild?” I say at normal volume. The rain drowns my words.

“To the right.”

“Can you make a waypoint or something?” I set off down the street, not bothering to avoid the puddles.

“You require an enchanted compass or map.”

“Why are you helping me?” There’s a pause when the avatar’s voice doesn’t answer. “I’m not mad. I’m confused.”

“Consider this a tutorial,” the avatar says a few minutes later. “Turn left. When you demonstrate an understanding of the principles of surviving in this world, I will cease to help.”

“But why though?” I turn left. The building I’m looking for is marked by a hanging sign of a painted eyeball. Between me and it, the street is flooded by backed-up storm drains. Clumps of questionable stuff float on the surface of the calf-deep pond. At this point, I don’t even hesitate. I slog right through it. “Why me? Nobody wants me. Nobody likes me. Why not help the girls or Qozu? Half those girls had mental problems up the wazoo.”

“If you desire,” the avatar’s voice says. “I can stop helping.”

I climb the steps to the mage’s guild. I scrape my shoes against the rug and try to shake off the biggest clumps. For a moment, I lean against the wall and study the street. Lightning flashes. The crows eyeball me. Shadows lurk in the alleys. It is not a pleasant world. But it is not much different from Chicago. I sigh.

“Don’t stop helping.”