Adam scowled at me and threw up his hands.

“Everything? The gunk-thief has an affinity for everything?”

“It seems that way,” the woman said. “Though I’m not exactly sure how that affinity will present itself. It doesn’t seem that his Destruction spell was any more powerful than it should be.”

I felt like a museum exhibit, posing for archaeologists while they poked and prodded, trying to uncover my secrets. After a while, I decided to speak up.

“What does it mean for me to have affinity? Do I have to do anything because of it?”

Adam and the woman glanced at each other and made contemplative faces, but neither came forth with anything immediately. It seemed I was safe just being...good at stuff.

“It’s not really a matter of having to do anything,” Adam said, “It’s more that you could do things if you wanted. Most people with any affinity whatsoever would run off and enroll in one of the Royal Army Schools, and if you don’t, you’re bound to get an invite sooner or later, once the world catches a glimpse of you.”

“What’s so good about the Royal Army?”

“Well, it’s the crème de la crème. Along with some of the members of top guilds, soldiers in the RA are esteemed fighters, admired by the masses, and very, very rich. On the downside, most don’t live more than ten years or so on the front lines.”

Ten years of glory, then what? A gruesome death? From what?

"What are my chances on the frontlines like at my current strength?”

Adam laughed and searched around himself, producing a dot of lint from his coat pocket. He held it out to me.

“If this piece of fluff is representative of your power right now,” he dropped it, then gestured around the room, “then the entirety of this house is the strength of the average Demon on the frontlines. It takes teams of Hunters to bring them down — you’d be crushed in an instant.”

Yikes. He’s doing a crap job of selling it.

“Okay, so my alternative is what, keep on keeping on like I’m an average Joe?”

“Precisely.”

“And, assuming I don’t have a desire to throw hands with Demons, or make boatloads of cash by risking my life, there is no downside to doing so?”

“None at all.”

“So why the hell are we still here? Let’s get cracking back to the office — I got work to do.”

I strode for the door, keen to get out of this house which increasingly smelled like burnt almonds.

Old people, I’m telling ya’.

“Hold on a sec!” called the woman. “Adam says you destroyed the carriage and lost us two grondbeasts. I hope you know those expenses will be coming out of your paycheck.”

I wheeled around, seeing the old woman was not joking.

“Excuse me? How much? What will I end up with now?”

Adam smiled and jutted in. He seemed proud to say the words.

“I did a quick calculation while you were napping. As far as I can tell, over the next four months, you’ll be paid...nothing!” His voice rose when he finished, like it was all a great joke.

My face contorted into thin lines, and I left.

Outside, I could recognize the general landscape of Haverbark — grey brick, wispy trees, horses and carts jostling for room in the side streets. I had no idea where in Haverbark I’d found myself, but I figured that if I followed the densest crowd, I’d eventually find a place I’d seen before, and from there, the GTA.

Hopefully.

Food was another issue. I wasn’t hungry at that moment — Combusto-Gunk still doing its job — but I suspected its nutritional content was not high, and I was eager to fill my stomach with something resembling a vegetable. I could attempt to steal from one of the street vendors, but I’d only gained one level in [Anaerobic Endurance] during my attempted escape from Adam, and I didn’t think that would stand up to a swift security guard or zealous merchant.

Having no money was a real bummer. Even worse was not having any for the next four months. On the bright side, I had no obligations — no rent to pay to a sleazy landlord, no utility bills, insurance, blah blah blah.

Fuhgeddaboudit.

I’d thought more about my predicament in the spare moments since arriving at my cubicle, and I concluded that I had essentially been ‘inserted’ into this world. Originally, I was worried that I’d been imprinted into the consciousness of some random GTA graduate, which would’ve brought along with it the whole disaster of managing family, friends, memories — all that junk.

This way was better — I had nothing, I knew nothing, and I was nothing, except for being naturally gifted at everything I did, according to the old lady.

Don’t sweat the small stuff.

My directionless walking had brought me to a place I knew — the church Adam and I passed on our journey to the Ripping Warriors. What I hadn’t noticed before was how clean the place was. The gravel path leading up to the door was arranged as though each stone was set in its place with tweezers. There was no obvious dust on the path, like it had been swept by a broom made of feathers. It felt treasonous to walk on it and disturb the work of art, but others were ahead of me, so I followed suit.

The gargoyles weren’t exactly churchy. They snarled, snapped, and sneered at me with curved canines and rows of razor teeth. One resembled a dove, but closer inspection revealed each eye cavity to be hollow, and the monster had small hands furrowed beneath its wings which held an eyeball each. I hurried past this one and felt a chill up my spine which made my shoulders jump and gave me the urge to turn around and keep an eye on it.

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I powered forward, leaving the gargoyles in the dust. Upon entering the building, I was greeted by the rows of pews I’d seen before, and sandstone pillars stretching up to a loosely triangular ceiling. Angels glowered down at the congregation, as if each of their prayers was interpreted first by the angels, approved, then sent to the relevant deity.

By the looks on the angel’s faces, the people weren’t sending up anything interesting.

I sat in a pew on the right side of the cathedral, third from the front, and rested my feet on the ledge just below where one’s bible would sit if this were a Catholic church. A scruffy old man shuffled over to me, assailing my nostrils with the scent of...something unearthly. He said something with a voice to fit his description, and I had to ask him to repeat himself.

“I shed, itz poor luck ta plonk ya feet on there if youz not prayin.”

I put my feet on the floor and apologized.

“My apologies, sir, I didn’t know.”

The man didn’t reply, only closing his eyes and placing his chin on his chest. After a minute or so, he stretched out his stunted legs, placed them on the prayer ledge, and began snoring.

Pot calling the kettle black, eh?

I didn’t comment — a life spent dealing with mobsters had taught me not to bother with how other people led their life, as long as it didn’t affect me. When I was about to leave, his snores paused, and he called to me.

“Leavin already? You can’t ev gotten more than wot — fifty EXP?”

I sat back down.

“EXP? What skill does sitting in a church pew give me. Patience?”

One bloodshot eye opened, tracking me. A cheesy grin appeared when he saw I was serious.

“You musht be pullin mah leg, sah. You mean you came en ere and jus sat still? Ooohahaoooo, that’s the best thing arv heard alla week! Come on, put me outta me misery, did ya just have a mite of EXP left?”

This interaction gave me flashbacks to sitting on the train one time in Melbourne, Australia. A homeless man had tried to sell me a handful of Cheetos in a zip-lock bag.

“I’m sorry, I really don’t understand — I don’t think I gained any EXP. Should I have?”

“Well, it depends how ‘ard you pray!”

“What do I pray for? And to who?”

Church Man lifted his head so I could see the wild eyes obscured under his bushy eyebrows. He had very small irises, which in turn made his pupil seem fully dilated, like an Oreo floating in a glass of banana flavored milk. Once satisfied I was serious, he stood, and motioned for me to follow him.

“I shwear, you musta been born under a rock and never left ‘ome, eh? Come looket this, might jog ya memory.”

He pulled out a dusty old volume and slapped it on the cobblestones. Swiping through, his finger picked up the grime of the pages, which he subsequently licked so that he could flick through easier. He didn’t seem to notice.

“See here, noice and general for ya, eh, eh? The Five Deities, all in a row. Talthen, tha goddesh of Combat, Melie, the god of Health, Rendar the god of Knowledge, err I don rememba the god of Intooishun, and last be Paul, the god and goddesh of Magic.”

I didn’t even bother digging into that last one. A gender-fluid goddess or god named Paul was one of the most normal things I’d encountered in my last thirty-six hours, and Church Man didn’t bat an eyelid when he said it.

I was surprised he didn’t know the God of Intuition’s name, but I didn’t think I’d remember them for more than five minutes anyway, so I prodded into the whole praying thing.

“Right, so do I just clasp my hands and ask them for EXP? Or do they like sacrifices? Trials?”

Church Man flicked around the book again and landed at a glossary containing the names of the Deities, and a list of foods underneath each.

“Here ya go — yer half right. The Deities ‘preciate mental sacrifice — pray to a specific one, offerin’ them the idea of some grub they likes, and getcha reward. Don't be offerin’ them the wrong food, though, you'll be smitten and lose ya EXP.”

I was pretty sure that’s not what smitten meant. He probably meant the Deity would smite me, which definitely sounded like a ‘godlier’ thing to do. Offer cheesecake to Talthen instead of Melie, and bam, I lose the ability to think.

Perfect. Low stakes indeed.

“Right. But how does this differ from just going out and using the skill or, I dunno, going for a run to increase my Aerobic Endurance?”

“Well, it don’t take any effort, of course! Can increase yer abilities without leavin’ the safety o’ the cathedral. It’s a liddle slowa, I’ll give ya that, but there be other benefits. Take the group over there, for example. They all be prayin’ on behalf o’ Granton Roolever — ya mighta seen him, dressin’ all loud and wearin’ that baby blue hat — he’s walkin’ round town gainin’ levels widout doin’ nothin’!”

That caught my attention.

In my part of town, we call that passive income.

“What do they get out of it? I assume praying on his behalf doesn’t earn them any EXP.”

“That’s correct. But—”

He rubbed two fingers together. Money. Oh sweet Mamma. My accountant's instinct jumped into action.

“How much do they get paid? How long do they work and when? How do I start?”

Church Man waved me back, garbling some noises as he closed the book and shoved it back into its place on the shelf.

“Don’t be plaguin’ me with that bullcrap — tis a pitiless job. If yer really desperate, go ask the devil hisself, he just walked in.”

I whipped around, and between the pillars and pews was the same man I’d seen entering the cathedral when I’d ridden past with Adam.

Oh shit, Adam. I gotta get back to the GTA.

I climbed back through the pews, excusing myself when I bumped into a man with his hands under his chin, murmuring “Paul, toffee apples, Paul, toffee apples.”

Granton saw me coming and paused.

“How can I help you, young lad?”

“I’d like to pray for you. How much do you pay?”

His face split into a devilish smile, and he retrieved a small leatherbound book from his coat, unclasping a button that kept it shut.

“I pay according to your sacrificial skills. For example, what food would you sacrifice to Rendar, God of Knowledge, on a rainy afternoon in the seventh month, assuming you had sacrificed poached pears for all the previous day?”

“Err, I suppose, shortbread?”

“And there you go! That would be a lovely sacrifice if you intended on having my brain turned to mush. Two desserts over two days? Get your head on straight! Come back when you know your spiritual ass from your elbow, thank you very much. I’ll test you again on Rendar’s eating habits next week, and I expect improvement!”

“Um, yes sir.”

Granton walked away, mingling with a group of ragged people in the front two rows. They drew back from him, and I could hear him reprimanding two of them for offering Talthen pork pies less than a week after offering fried onion rings. The two took their verbal beatings and shrank back to their seat, praying with renewed energy.

Addressing the problem at hand, I had no idea how to please the God of Knowledge. I wanted to google it, but in this sticks and stones world, I’d have to settle for something a little more tangible.

I went back to where Church Man had pulled the book he’d shown me. Flicking through the titles, there were many detailing Talthen and Paul’s diets, but I found nothing on Rendar until I was close to giving up hope. Right at the bottom of the shelf was a relatively small book compared to the ten-thousand-page odysseys written on the other gods — it was about the size of fifty A4 pages.

Its title? Ravenous Rendar: Rewarding our Redeemer with Rice, Radicchio, and Raw Rabbit.

The alliteration nearly killed me. I opened to the first page and groaned.

‘Come one, come all! Feast your eyes on this comprehensive journey into the God of Knowledge and his eating habits. First, we will sail the seas and provide every minute detail on tuna, salmon, marlin, gummy shark, and how to prepare them appropriately. Next, stand back! Boiled snakes are a dangerous delicacy and must be treated with utmost respect unless you wish for complete removal of your mathematical ability!’

I hadn’t expected prayer to require so much preparation, but I was here now, and the prospect of earning money almost brought tears to my eyes. My work at the GTA would have me scraping by for four months.

I stuffed the book under my jumper and left the church, turning on my heel to head up the road to the GTA.

Time to do some homework.