Dean woke to the touch of rich silk sheets, the sound of nearby birdsong, and the scent of bacon wafting through the air. To his surprise, he did not feel nauseated or experience the debilitating headache he associated with a night of heavy drinking. He felt well-rested as he had the past few nights in this new world. Pulling on his clothes, which he found neatly folded on a chair in the corner of the room, he noted that his shirt was absent.

Quietly leaving the room and following the smell of breakfast, he found himself in a large open-plan living room and kitchen. Standing at the stove, wearing his missing shirt, was Josie, her hair pinned up in a messy bun, humming as she bent to pull fresh bread from the oven. It was a glorious sight to behold. He let out a slight cough, letting her know she wasn’t alone and that he was admiring the view.

“Mornin’ sweet, come sit and have breakfast,” she appealed with a warm smile. Dean heard a door close elsewhere as he sat, followed by stumbling footsteps and groaning. Tim's dishevelled form dragged itself into the dining room. He looked up, mouth agape at Dean, who was suddenly taking a keen interest in his food, and then at his mother, who laid another plate of meat and eggs on the table, her cheeks heating, also avoiding eye contact. Tim sighed in resignation. “Gods dammit, Dean,” he muttered before bolting upright, clutching his mouth and darting back the way he came.

“Don’t mind him. I’m a grown woman, and he knows it.” Josie advised, sitting opposite Dean with a coffee clutched in her hands.

Once he finished eating, Dean spoke, “He’s a good lad; I’m sure he’ll get over it. But, uh, listen, Josie… I don’t know how things work here- don’t get me wrong. I like you; you’re an amazing, beautiful woman, but I’m not looking for anything right now. See back where I came from, I had-”

“I’ll stop you there, handsome. I already know your story of heartbreak. Hells, I think the whole town knows. Someone had to take your mind off it and just shut you up,” she chuckled, giving him a wink.

“Urghh… I’m sorry, Josie. I had no idea I was in such a rite state,” Dean apologized. "I appreciate you making me breakfast, which is delicious, by the way, but I need to get going—there’s lots to be done today.”

“Oh my! Well, don’t let me stop you. The tub is the last door on the right upstairs, and the tap runs hot, so you don’t need to wait for water to boil.” Josie instructed, rising and clearing away his plate before returning to him. Dean then rose too, so she leaned in, kissing his cheek softly before asking, “So if y’ don’t mind me askin’, what is it you plan on doin’?”

“Me, my dear Josephine? I’m gonna deliver mail.”

----------------------------------------

The previous night, Dean and Magistrate Zhang had discussed roles for which he would be a good fit. Zhang had offered him a role as a clerk thanks to his advanced numbers and letters, but Dean really didn’t want to be stuck behind a desk anymore. After several other suggestions, the role of ‘messenger’ came up.

Zhang had tried to dissuade him by explaining that the role wasn’t really that of a courier, that it was more of a Jack-of-all-trades that involved traveling weeks between settlements, spreading decrees, bodyguarding, delivering packages, and providing any assistance that had been requested through the guild that organized the messengers. In other words, it screamed of adventure. He would become an adventurer.

Adamant in his decision, Dean was reluctantly advised to meet with the guild representative in the town, an old man named Doug. Doug had a bit of a reputation as a ‘real piece of work’ and ‘just a huge asshole’ (sourced from an inebriated Rod and Tim the night before.) It was explained that anyone with business for the messengers would speak directly to one of the infrequent travelling couriers with their requests rather than deal directly with Doug, who was responsible for assigning their work. But Dean had had his share of asshole bosses, so he was confident he could make it work.

Making his way through town to the Messenger guild, or ‘Depot’ as it was colloquially known, Dean arrived at the destination to find a run-down, false-fronted shack. It was paint-striped, and its sign was missing. The upper floor shutters were closed, the lower ones boarded over, and the glass within their frames smashed. A large storage shed was attached to the side of the building. It ran the entire length of the Depot and then some.

Despite his lack of confidence, Dean pushed cautiously through the main door to the Depot, coming inside to see an empty reception. When Dean pressed the bell, which sat dusty atop the desk in the middle of the room, it did not ring. Examining it closer, he saw that the clacker inside had been intentionally removed. Deciding it would show initiative, he went to have a look-see around the building with the ‘honest’ intention of finding Doug and not at all snooping around.

Dean eventually found the intended target sprawled across a sofa in a recreational or common room. Scattered around the slumbering man were numerous empty liquor bottles, one of which he clutched tightly. The old man was of average height and surprisingly scrawny build. His tanned skin was speckled with liver spots and sagged from his arms and face with age. He was primarily bald but retained wispy, long, grey hair around the nape of his head. Naturally, he kept a shabby beard. He wore a home-spun and threadbare Zhongyi and wide-legged trousers.

Something about the snoring, tawdry elder filled Dean with irrational annoyance. This man was supposed to represent him in the future, represent all messengers, really. So, Dean kicked the unconscious man, not hard, but enough to raise the man from his stupor.

A few things happened then, in quick succession. Firstly, Dean let out a slight jab with his foot. Next, the apparently sleeping man reached out and caught Dean’s foot with both arms, pulling it to his chest while rolling backward from where he lay off the couch, twisting Dean’s foot, causing him to spin while falling. At that exact moment, [Flow] activated, and Dean began acting on instinct.

Using his own rotational momentum to his advantage, he continued spinning and lashed a kick out at Doug. Now on his back and having released Dean’s foot, Doug pushed off the wall with his hands and bounded at his opponent. Meanwhile, Dean, on his chest and facing away, pushed off the floor, gaining air as Doug slid underneath. Doug then threw several strikes at Dean, who could not escape while briefly suspended. He made his best attempt at deflecting and defending the blows, but caught a clipping fist to the chin, instantly rebooting his brain.

Now, with the [Flow] knocked out of him, he was at the mercy of his senior. He fell atop his elder, who was momentarily surprised his opponent had suddenly given up but quickly recovered. He then seized the opportunity by toppling Dean and reversing the mount. Now atop the would-be messenger, Doug snaked one leg under Dean’s, placing his foot firmly in the other’s groin. He then sat, applying pressure to the other man’s knee.

Writing in discomfort, Dean did not see Doug pull a wooden practice sword until it was pressed against his neck. “Who in the hells sent you? Was it that bastard Dongfang? Tell him you’re one hundred years too early to make moves on me, boy.”

“I don’t ken who that is! I’m here for w- ” Dean sputtered, attempting to defuse the situation.

“Yes, for my head. I know this, you fool! I asked you who sent you, not why! Now give me an answer, or I’ll send you to meet your ancestors,” Doug berated, prodding his quarry in the cheek.

When the door swung open, Dean was saved from further misunderstanding. A petite young woman holding a steaming box wrapped in cloth entered. She paused at the sight of the two men before shouting, “Mr. Whitehill! Release that man this instant! What have I told you about attacking guests!”

“But he attacked me first!” Doug defended, releasing the knee-lock, but remained sitting atop Dean.

“I did n- Okay, maybe I did, but it wasn’t an attack! I was just waking him up! I was told to visit by the magistrate, and then I found this guy asleep, cuddling booze like a teddy bear! Listen, I’m applying to be a messenger- Ow! Stop it!” Dean tried to clarify but was interrupted by a bonk to the head from the swordsman.

Doug chuckled, but after receiving a glare from the woman in the doorway, he went silent and mimed, zipping his mouth closed. She maintained her stare a while longer before turning to Dean, “Yes, of course. You must be Dean? I was fortunate enough to bump into Ms. Josaphine, who told me that you would be visiting Mr. Whitehill today. I am Gang Zanling,” she bowed deeply, “I make sure elder Doug takes his medicine and doesn’t cause too much trouble, which it seems he has… Douglas! Apologise!”

Despite her stature, her glare was formidable, and Dean was glad it was not bearing down on him. He took a proper look at her now. She was short, hardly five feet tall, and had thick, dark brown, almost black hair that she kept back in an intricate plait. Her intense stare was amplified by her amethyst eyes.

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

Having been cowed, the elder climbed to his feet and held a hand out to Dean, who reluctantly took it and was pulled to his feet. Squeezing the hand a bit too tightly, Doug apologized, “No hard feelings, eh, boy?”

“None at all, elder,” Dean retorted with a smirk, returning the favour.

The two men stood like that for a long moment before Doug's stomach rumbling at the smell of hot food brought him back to his senses. “Little Zanling! Did you bring this old man breakfast? You truly are the fairest of them all, my dear girl,” he said with honest-to-gods tears in his eyes. Taking the box from her, he sat down at a table nearby, tapping the seat next to his with a smile for the girl.

“Elder Doug, perhaps Mister Dean would care to join us?” Zanling proposed, taking a seat herself.

Already opening the box laden with various buns, he stuck one in his mouth and replied through his food, “Yah, ‘ure, wha’e’er.” He swallowed, giving his chest a few thumps to clear his throat, and spoke again, “But those buns are mine, y’hear?”

“Elder Doug…,” Zanling warned.

“It’s fine, Miss Gang. I’ve already eaten. Cheers for the offer, though,” Dean acknowledged, sitting opposite Doug.

There was silence while Zanling and Doug ate. Once they had finished, Doug looked to fully address Dean, “You wanna be a messenger, eh? What’s the matter, yer girlfriend dumped you, so now you’re trying to rediscover yourself?”

“Well, aye, actually,” Dean admitted.

“Like I give two shits. Now, I reckon I got a good judge’a who y’are from our little spar there, I might’ve thought you had something worth my time fer a second. But only a second. But I s’pose it’ll have to do; we can’t afford t’be fussy out here in the sticks. Remember, It’s hard work bein’ a messenger, and I won’t accept no weak little boys who’ll run home to mommy the first time they get held up by bandits. To ensure you’re man enough not to cry like a girl at night, you’ll need trainin’, but in the meantime, I might be able to give you the jobs a baby could do blindfolded…”

He was momentarily lost in thought before moving on, “that reminds me. We got three rules: Messengers commit, once we take a job we see it through. Also, We don’t go lookin’ fer trouble. Don’t run around swingin’ ya giant danglers, comparin’ ‘em to the next fella, provoking fights for your own ego. Messengers are a well-respected bunch, mostly. It’s our reputation that keeps us in business, and many folks rely on our business. And above all, Don’t be stupid. If you find yourself in a sit’ation or get tossed a job that’ll kill ya, walk away! Leave that job to someone with a death wish. Think before you take on any job. Is it within your capabilities, and can you plan for unpredictable outcomes? You’re no good to anyone dead.”

----------------------------------------

Over the next hour, Doung and Zanling gave Dean a tour of the facilities. There was a training space in the rear of the building, a tiny barrack was located upstairs, as well as a washroom that only consisted of a single large washtub and a bar of unused soap; water would need to be pulled from the well that was located out back and heated in the kitchen. The ‘kitchen’ was a fireplace in the corner of the common room meant to warm it in the colder months. Much like the reception hall, the rest of the Depot was worse for wear. He was even warned not to enter the closets on the upper floor, as its floorboards were rotted. Zanling informed him that she had almost fallen through once while trying to collect a change of sheets.

Zanling left after giving Doug his medicine and checking his mouth to ensure he had ingested them. She advised that she would be by every morning to do the same. Doug immediately put Dean to work repairing and maintaining the building, all under the guise of ‘training,’ “It’ll put some muscles on ya!” he had said.

Over the next few days and true to his word, Dean put up with the old man’s attitude, only getting into a fight once more, but without [Flow], he was quickly and soundly defeated. One evening, after Zanling came by with dinner, she pulled Dean aside after having seen that Doug had fallen asleep at the table.

“How has he been?”

“Uh, honestly? A rite arsehole,” he answered.

“No, I mean, I know he can be… difficult, but has he been acting strange? Confused, or maybe distracted?” she clarified, her demeanour becoming intense.

“Oh,” Dean simply replied, understanding what she was getting at. Growing up, Dean had a grandfather on his mother’s side who had suffered from dementia; he would have days where he would not recognize his daughter or mistake her for someone else, and sometimes, he could become violent for no apparent reason, succumbing to his confusion. He eventually passed away, having forgotten how to eat, lost and afraid.

“No, he’s been well. I had no idea…,” he paused, unsure of what to say.

“It’s okay, Dean,” she said softly. “He has no family that we are aware of, so the lord magistrate has asked me to see him from time to time. Did you know it was Elder Doug who quelled the cultivators that destroyed the hill? I’m sure if it were not for his attitude, many would treat him like a hero if they do not already do so in secret.”

Dean was wiping sweat from his brow as he finished painting the external walls when old Doug approached. "It’s ‘bout time ya finished up!” he nagged.

“Aye, what is it, old man?” Dean sassed back, climbing down from the ladder he stood atop.

“Respec’ yer elders, boy! Ya missed a spot, too! But I ‘spose that can be excused as ya got no talent…,” Doug goaded in return. “Ahem! Anyways, if yer done with yer work, I think its ‘bout time you learned a thing ‘r too about messengering.”

“Wait, wasn’t this supposed to be part of my training?”

“’ Course not, idyit! It’s hard to find free labour, that’s all,” he chuckled at the look of exasperation on the other man’s face. “Get yer butt inside ‘fore you scare passersby wit’ yer ugly face!” Dean followed his new teacher to the training hall and sat as instructed.

“So, Dean, tell me how is it you can stand toe-to-toe with th’ mighty Doug Whitehill in our first meetin’, but suddenly become like a wet noodle? You haven’t shown that level of skill to me again, but my gut tells me it weren’t no fluke either…”

Dean spent a while trying to find the right words before he decided to just say the truth, most of it anyway. “It’s a skill I have. I don’t really ken how it works or how to turn it on though? It sort of just happens.”

The old man simply looked puzzled before asking, “What d’ya mean by skill? Skills somethin’ ya work on so you can use ‘em, ain’t they?”

“Aye, but, well?... Let’s say I woke up with a scroll, and when I read it, the skill was in my head, already learned. Yeah, and the scroll is in my head too, it has all these skills and stuff on it, even details aboot me I don’t ken myself. But now, cuz the scroll is in my noggin,’ I cannaw read it; it just happens all random like,” Dean explained.

Doug nodded in understanding. “Magic scrolls, now I getcha. Sounds like a soul bound item t’me. Ya tried meditatin’? Some cult’vators struggle to interact wit’ their bound items unless they vis’lize it, and meditation can help wit’ dat.”

“I did try meditating, but I’m not sure exactly what I’m doin’? Just sit there with my eyes closed and try not to think, right? And speaking of ‘soul bound’ items, I think I remember reading something about my knife ‘awakening’ and ‘responding to my will’, does that mean anything to you?” Dean enquired.

The elder’s eyes widened in shock and recognition at Dean’s words, “Hot damn, boy! You’re either the luckiest sum’bitch I ever met, have a shit load of untapped ‘tential, or both! Firs’ly, sounds like yer knife is soul bound too. Show me, would ya?”

It was the first time Dean had unsheathed Sheila since the fight with the Thistle-Sage, if he was honest with himself, he was nervous about interacting with the thing after vaguely recalling the system notification telling him it was awakened. Did that mean it was alive? Did he have to feed it? Would it speak to him? What did a knife eat? Blood, other knives? Mary and Bobby, the kids he rescued from the Thistle-Sage said it glowed, was it now a lightsaber?

Steeling himself for the results, Dean gingerly pull Sheila from its sheath and laid it down in front of him. It did not glow, nor was it talking in his mind. It did however appear different. Where previously, it was a simple and unadorned bowie knife, Sheila’s blade was a dark, rippled metal, reminding Dean of Damascus steel. But what caught both their eyes more was the handle. It went from a lacquered wood, with a simple metal pommel, to a beautifully twisted ivory handle, with a large iridescent stone affixed to the butt.

Item: Sheila, bonded blade.

Quality: Masterwork.

UNIQUE, GROWTH ITEM.

Sheila is awoken and soul-bound to you.

This blade embodies the crescent moon.

This blade imbues the metal essence.

This blade is the child and is paired with another blade.

This growth-type item is stunted! It is unable to grow without its paired parent blade.

“By the Buddha’s blessed balls.” Doug marvelled. “That’s a real fucking knife.”