By the time I make it back home, I'm out of breath and my face is probably a strange mix of excitement and worry, two emotions not often seen on my face, let alone together, and as I push open the front door—rather too dramatically, too loudly!—my parents, both of whom are still awake, say, in overlapping questions:

“Where have you been?” / “Are you alright?”

I catch my breath.

“Gromi,” my mom says.

“—I'm fine. I'm… Dad, I took your sword, the one down in the cellar.”

“My old adventuring sword?” he asks.

“Yes. I was going to have it restored for you, as a gift—happy birthday, by the way—so I went to see Eduard, the blacksmith. He told me he'd do it for free—mind you, that should have made me suspicious—anyway, I left your sword with him—he appeared particularly impressed by it, which now, in hindsight, makes perfect sense—and he told me to come by at nightfall to pick it up. But when I got there—I just came from his smithy now—Eduard was gone. And so was the sword!”

“Oh, Gromi,” says my mom and hugs me. “We're so glad you're home. It's unlike you to be out so late.”

“That old blade is nought but an antique by now,” says my dad. “I don't have any sentimental attachment to it. I should have thrown it out years ago.”

“Why didn't you?” I ask.

“I suppose I don't have a particular reason. I never got around to it, that's all.”

“If it's just an antique, why would Eduard steal it?”

“You're jumping to conclusions,” says my mom. “Maybe he was working on it and something happened, something needing his attention, and he took it with him. Maybe he took it so that it wouldn't get stolen. You can't always see the worst in people, Gromi.”

“He left everything else. Valuable things. Tools, materials. But he did take his walking stick and his cloak.”

“And struck out by foot at night into the wilds with my battered old short sword?” my dad says. “That's nearly theatrical.”

“I'm sure it's a misunderstanding that will be cleared up by morning. You mentioned his cloak, Gromi. I made that for him, soon after he arrived in the village. He overpaid me for it too. Now you say he's stolen some rusted chunk of worthless metal from us?” says my mom. “I don’t believe it.”

“It doesn't make sense,” says dad.

“We don't know if he went on foot. The village has horses. Maybe one's missing,” I say, and before either of my parents can interject, I add: “But there's more to it. Dad, when I was at the smithy waiting for Eduard to show up—knowing he wouldn't show up, and seeing that your sword wasn't there… I got a quest: to retrieve the sword!”

“Oh, Gromi…”

Tears start to well in my mom's eyes. My dad pats me on my back, then pulls me unexpectedly closer for the strongest bear hug I can remember.

“Did you accept the quest?” he asks.

“Dad, that's not the poin—accept it? I'm confused. “What do you mean did I accept it?”

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“Quests aren't accepted automatically,” he explains. “They're presented to you but you still have to accept them manually. Otherwise they sit there until the invitation expires. But”—I am about to think my acceptance of it—”you should ponder thoroughly before deciding, Grom. I know you have waited a long time for this and you're eager.”

“First quests are special,” my mom adds. “You'll always remember your first, so make sure it's the right one.”

“But not too special. There will be others, and one day there'll be the perfect one,” says my dad, smiling lovingly at my mom.

“We just mean that you should make sure you're ready and that it's a quest which means something to you. You don’t want to take a quest as your first and then regret it for the rest of your life.”

“I'm ready and it means a lot to get back the sword I lost,” I say—and, thinking, accept the quest.

> QUEST ACCEPTED: Retrieve your father's short sword.

It's nearly impossible to describe what happens next. It's as if my entire body, mind and soul are spun, bewitched, reconfigured. Oh, and there's music: what glorious music! (The books hadn't mentioned music.) I'm pretty sure I'm the only one who hears it. Is it my music? But although I spin—am spinning—and I am being rearranged, readied, I am still who I am, who I was, and the world around me remains static. It's an out-of -body [-mind, -soul, -perspective] experience, and when it's over (I wish I could have felt it for hours!) I feel that I am no longer a boy but a man: an adventurer: a bonafide hero—

who pukes.

All over my parents' rug.

“Don't worry. That happens to almost everyone,” says my dad.

“I'm so proud of you, Gromi,” says my mom. This time she truly is crying, wiping tears from her cheeks. “My sweet little Gromi. My lovely boy.”

Now, [somewhere beyond this existence] my character rolls are made, my base stats compiled [by algorithms I shall never understand], and for the first time—with my heart lodged firmly in my throat—I am presented with:

Level 0 Strength 1 Dexterity 1 Constitution 1 Wisdom 1 Intelligence 1 Charisma 1

I am dumb with disbelief. Silent with seething anger. Retching with the bitterness of disappointment. If my rage had been a fire, it would instantly have been doused with the waters of—

“Just my luck,” I say, with sad exasperation.

(Luck, it should be pointed out, is not one of the stats.)

“What's wrong?” my dad asks, so I reveal my base numbers to him. “Oh. Well, that’s—I mean, I am certain it must have happened before… to someone. I, uh, cannot recall anyone specific, but…”

“Everyone starts at Level 1,” I say.

(“He's Level 0,” my dad whispers to my mom.)

“That's the thing about leveling and experience, Gromi—you gain it through your own actions, decisions and successes. And base stats are just that: you'll improve them in no time. Where you start tells you very little about where you’ll end up.”

“It's not fair,” I say. “I get my first quest later than everyone else and I start from a statistical disadvantage.”

“One has to admit, it was a series of unfortunate—I daresay almost impossibly unfortunate—rolls,” says my dad, still looking over my stats.

“Chin up,” says my mom, and literally forces my chin up. Am I crying too? No, it couldn’t be. It’s just sweat from all that running I did. “You focus on what you can control. You’ve always been a good, smart boy. Now you have a quest to complete.” I try to drop my chin to my chest, but she keeps it forcibly up, her eyes looking resolutely into mine. “You focus on the things you can control, Gromi. All else is birdsquawk.”

“I”—(want to keep bemoaning my pitiable luck, but I can’t. Not with my parents both looking at me with such love)—“wanted to ask you, dad. All my books say quests must have a greater significance. They can’t just be doing favours for friends or family. To me, that means your sword has to be more than an antique. It must be somehow important.”

“You are right about quests,” says my dad

“Dad,” I say, “I know it’s late, but I have a favour to ask. I want you to tell me absolutely everything you remember about that sword.”