Welcome to your new life in “Aestrux.”
Due to your [ final wish ] you were chosen for [ soul rehabilitation ].
Your [ soul rehabilitation ] destined you to the “Kingdom of Amnasín” where you are labeled a “hero” i.e. a summoned individual from another realm.
Confirmation of transfer success by the local authority has attuned you to the languages of “Aestrux” and thereby granted you access to the [ system ].
next:
[ attributes ]
[ unique skill ]
[ hero skills ]
It took hours for Hallvar to stop heaving, a convulsion which made the new scar on their stomach ache, the muscles sore from being recently reknit. They remained a pathetic mess – feverish and shivering, locked in a cart not meant for human transport with few airholes, in complete darkness and wedged against heavy royal bullshit.
The space remained pitch black, but a curious prompt filled their thoughts. It wasn’t visual, or else the crates would be lit up with a screen glow.
Yet, it seemed visual. Like something from a video game.
Hallvar re-read the welcome message, struggling to process this information. A [ final wish ] ?
final wish
“-that every bad thing meant something good was coming, that the pain was worth it.”
- Abigail Chloe Schultze
Hrm. Hallvar didn’t appreciate the reminder of their last moments as Abby. It was sad and it still felt lonely.
What was [ soul rehabilitation ] then?
A helpful infographic popped into their mind. From one Abby-shaped silhouette, a cartoonish soul emerged, a squiggly-tailed blob like a ghost. An arrow guided it to a sphere – a world – where the soul zoomed into a Hallvar-shaped silhouette.
Okay, that seemed obvious.
Aestrux was?
The continent, the system answered.
And Amnasín was a kingdom, the kingdom they currently resided in.
A flurry of confetti-like sparkles danced in their periphery. Hallvar frowned. The supportive celebration for a correct answer felt like when a text message came with special effects, such as balloons or fireworks.
They read over the last section, which suggested the next topics to learn about. Skills and attributes. Was this a video game? Not a world of its own?
faq topic: is this world a video game?
No, “Aestrux” is governed by a system in the same way that “❚❚❚❚❚” is governed by the laws of physics.
All actions taken on “Aestrux” warrant immediate reactions and consequences. There are no save features or new game.
Okay, so everything was final and real, the system just took on the appearance of a video game UI. That was kind of neat.
Even though Hallvar still felt like shit, they had to admit the prospect of special skills, magic, and language really turned this day around.
With nothing else to do, they popped open the attributes. As their thoughts lingered on each number, additional information opened on the side.
Attribute: strength
base: 7
current: 7
Attribute: dexterity
base: 10
current: 12
+2 earned prior to welcome message
➳ artisan skills and handicrafts, harvesting plants, sewing, leatherworking
Attribute: agility
base: 6
current: 6
Attribute: awareness
base: 6
current: 14
+8 earned prior to welcome message
➳ interpretation of non-verbal communication necessary to survival
➳ situational awareness necessary to survival
Attribute: constitution
base: 9
current: 9
Attribute: endurance
base: 15
current: 17
Set at Base 15 as primary "hero" attribute
+2 earned prior to welcome message
➳ harsh survival conditions, heavy continuous labor
Attribute: charisma
base: 5
current: 5
Attribute: intelligence
base: 11
current: 11
Adjusted upon receipt of welcome message from 3 (-8) to 11
➳ lack of language prevents retaining knowledge
Attribute: luck
base: 2
current: 5
+3 earned prior to welcome message
➳ [ unique skill ]
afflictions
Magic sickness (08h : 22m remaining)
Hallvar felt a weird sense of relief. Their [ final wish ] was something they truly felt but didn’t care to admit, so seeing that the past two weeks of fuckery actually resulted in tangible improvement? It did make the suffering worth it.
The stats were hard to understand at first glance, but Hallvar asked a bunch of questions until they felt they had a good sense of what was what. The system seemed to have a supportive, helpful design that didn’t range too far into sass or sarcasm.
A normal adult ranged between 6 – 10 in all their attributes, with obvious alterations due to physical, social, or mental limitations. No other information was provided, except that “normal adult” meant someone who didn’t attempt to improve any particular attribute.
Strength and agility were low. Hallvar knew that from today’s fight with the big lizards; they were captured by lumbering beasts and they were barely strong enough to move their corpses for processing.
In fact, the combat sense Hallvar felt must have been from half-decent awareness. It was what saved their life, not that piss-poor luck attribute.
A 5? Starting at 2? No wonder bad shit kept happening to them. Those were child numbers. Babies were luckier than Hallvar.
The system… wavered at the edges, information pushing forward without Hallvar’s intention. Was that disapproval?
Attribute: luck
base: 2
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
current: 5
+3 earned prior to welcome message
➳ [ unique skill ]
Luck affects system odds to benefit you. Luck generates increased odds of finding rare beasts or materials, access to hidden territories, or unlocking unknown skills and subclasses.
Crafting and gambling actions are directly impacted by luck.
normal: 0-1
lucky: 2
augmented: 3-4
?????: 5+
What? A 5 in luck was good? Why was it graded so low compared to the others? Hallvar stared at the list of normal, lucky, augmented before settling on the note about a unique skill.
They didn’t understand how such terrible things kept happening to them, including this imprisonment for hitting the princess with a small rock launched 50 feet away at a moving carriage! Luck 5? More like unluck 5.
After a minute of defiant irritation, Hallvar mentally prodded the unique skill.
bad luck boon
Each time you experience misfortune, you have a small chance of increasing your luck attribute by 1.
Chance percentage is calculated based on the imminent danger of the misfortune.
The luck attribute does not affect the chance percentage. You are not allowed to game the system.
show log? yes | no
This… sounded too good to be true. Hallvar rubbed their eyes, wondering if someone smarter could help them later. Fern, Fern could help. She was smart. The looming man would love to know this information, Hallvar bet, but he wouldn’t be helpful about it.
Ugh, Fern. Hallvar didn’t know where they were going or if they’d ever go back to the large city at all. Was the princess that pissed off? It was a freak accident, a fluke. Hallvar doubted they could replicate it if pressed.
Something lingered at the edge of their thoughts. Something Fern related.
Slowly, Hallvar sat up and repositioned their bag, fishing around for the metal card that Fern told them to show to all merchants. They had to hold it up to a small hole in the upper wall of the cart, but they could make out the engraved words.
adventurer's guild
Name:
Age:
Class:
Subclass:
Place of Origin:
attributes str [ ] awa [ ] cha [ ]
agi [ ] con [ ] int [ ]
dex [ ] end [ ] luc [ ]
Oh, well that tracked. The looming man ran an adventurer’s guild and Fern worked there. Suddenly all the quests and people with adventuring equipment made sense. It seemed so obvious in hindsight.
But, then again, their intelligence was only recently adjusted back to normal. Hallvar was certifiably dumb for a few weeks.
They turned their attention to the red ribbon and the strange note. Now that it was legible, Hallvar could see exactly what they were presenting to merchants, café staff, anyone who was confused about lack of conversation.
It was signed by V. The looming man? Fern was the one who physically gave Hallvar the card, but the tone of the message didn’t seem to fit her… everything.
They put away their things, sitting in the quiet for what felt like forever. They were thinking. Nothing special, nothing important. Some half-baked ramblings of a still-feverish mind. Eight hours remained of this magic sickness, whatever that meant.
The presence of a system opened the world up for Hallvar. Did they want to pursue magic? Was it even an option? The adventurer’s guild card noted class and subclass, so Hallvar would have to choose those.
Sometimes in games wisdom was required for magic, but that didn’t seem to be a stat here. Or charisma. If charisma was linked to magic, Hallvar needed to start weight training.
What could they do? What did they want to do?
The system populated a list in their mind. Suggested reading, it said. Well, who was Hallvar to argue with the UI?
➳ ➳ ➳
The procession arrived at the jousting tournament with time to spare, as the honored guests were greeted with a feast, a show of dancers and musicians alike, and many, many words spoken by the duke of the host city.
The knights were not responsible for unloading the princess’s belongings into her temporary room at the duke’s manor estate, so those who were not on duty wandered off to drink and enjoy the festivities themselves.
It was the unfortunate staff who, while preparing the princess’s quarters for the night, discovered that the prisoner had long been forgotten. They were startled by the presence of a man in the cart; thinking he was a stowaway, they called for the commanding knight to assist.
He brushed the summons off, as his concern was to watch the jousting- uh, to watch the princess, of course. A lesser knight could handle this.
Ser Kiran the Unyielding watched this exchange and shuffling of responsibility with vague concern from her place of honor. She liked jousting, but as the former First-Knight of the kingdom, it was hard to remove work from her retired life.
She watched a few more matches, if only to see one of her favorites compete (and win), but as the tourney set up for a round of melee, Kiran found her mind wandering.
It didn’t help that the princess failed to be entertaining, namely since she was a child. Though retired, Kiran still held a place of authority in the little girl’s mind, so the knight shot a warning glance at Princess Citarina when she began to gossip with the closest heroes.
The heroes themselves were… interesting. In her time, Kiran would have squeezed that charismatic little shit until all his cloying and manipulative commentary stopped. It would be like squishing a lemon. Barring assault, a month straight of combat practice with no days off would solve that hero’s incessant need to be in control.
Then again, Kiran had a passive skill that negated the effects of charm and charisma. Misplaced Flattery was well and truly earned in her younger years. Being pretty and among soldiers came with equal parts harassment and attempts to bed her. Her title of Unyielding was often the focus of many lewd jokes behind closed doors.
The others were fine, as far as heroes went. The archer and the brawler were easy to read. One pretended to be mysterious but watched the combatants like a hawk; the other wore his emotions on his non-sleeves, shouting and cheering alike.
The mage was uncomfortable with the noise, but she spent her time subtly reading under the table. Good for her.
Kiran excused herself to leave, though no one bothered to glance her way. The benefit of being a retired First-Knight was that the nobility hardly cared to bother a powerless old woman with their petty squabbles and the knight order was still terrified of her shadow.
She asked a soldier where the commanding knight was needed, insisting that she could deal with it. They answered eagerly, trying to vie for a better spot to watch the melee rounds as Kiran walked away.
She didn’t entirely blame the troops for being more interested in the tournament than whatever this minor problem was, as they traveled hours from the capital only to wait around some more. Jousting was much more entertaining than watch duty.
An hour passed since the first message of a stowaway-prisoner to handle. Kiran’s face darkened as she learned of the soldier’s solution, approaching the parked carriages and horse stables with apprehension.
Any sympathy she had for the soldiers instantly disappeared.
The prisoner was tied between two posts of the horse fence, rope keeping their arms from bending much, if any. It was a makeshift stocks in the full sun, but the prisoner’s head was exactly the right height for one of the knight’s horses to kick if they wanted to wander towards this side of the corral.
“Asses,” Kiran grumbled. She approached the prisoner, drawing a knife from her side to free their arms, giving them a fair warning. “Fight or run and you’ll regret it.”
No response. Was this prisoner even conscious?
Though old, Kiran didn’t retire from injury or lack of ability. She simply knew age-slowed reactions were inevitable, and she didn’t want that moment to be at the claws or sword of an enemy.
She hauled the prisoner to their feet, using the ropes around their shoulders as a harness. The skins of two tarrusmaw drew her attention by stench, then a dangling axe and leather bag. An adventurer?
Kiran hobbled over to her wagon, activating a strength-boosting skill to raise the man into the back. She was no small woman, but the prisoner was no small man either.
The tied skins were hung on the outside from a hook so they wouldn’t stink up her provisions for the month. Kiran would allow the stranger the blessing of shade, but she didn’t want her foodstuffs to smell of dead lizard.
The prisoner was still alive and breathing. They radiated heat yet didn’t seem sweaty; their lips were dry and cracked. Kiran swore. The soldiers bothered to feed and water the horses, but not a prisoner?
With no hesitation, Kiran pried open the man’s mouth, glancing at their gums and tongue for a hint at their condition. It worked for animals, it would probably work on humans.
This seemed to rouse the prisoner.
“What are you doing?” they grumbled hoarsely.
“Keeping you alive,” Kiran answered succinctly. She helped prop the prisoner up and passed them a waterskin. “Drink.”
That was the gift of life for Hallvar, who genuinely felt like they were dying of thirst. The last time they had water was… at home, in the kitchen. They couldn’t exactly tell time, but Hallvar guessed a day and a half, at minimum. Didn’t people die after a few days without water?
A water bottle or this-world’s equivalent went on the mental to-buy list immediately.
Hallvar aspirated a gulp, choking and coughing as they brought themselves properly upright.
“Don’t die,” the old woman said bluntly. “I don’t want to explain why a prisoner died in my wagon.”
They just groaned and tried to orient themselves. Wagon was correct; the bright surroundings outside were unrecognizable through the canvas opening.
Kiran kept a hand near her belt where a dagger was sheathed. While she could afford to be nice, she wouldn’t be stupid.
“Do you know why you are a prisoner?”
“Yeah,” Hallvar answered, not catching the point of questioning.
Kiran sighed. “Tell me why you are a prisoner.”
Even feverish, Hallvar thought that was a weird demand. Surely if she was with their captor, she knew. Regardless, they answered.
“I hit the princess with a rock.”
In the following silence, Hallvar continued to drink from the waterskin.
Kiran’s face told her every emotion. Sure, she wasn’t within the ranks of the knight order anymore, but she was still privy to gossip. An attack on the princess would have warranted immediate discussion with every knight and local guard present, herself included.
The princess didn’t look injured either, nor did she look emotionally distressed.
Any enemy who attacked royalty was treated with great caution. So why was this boy tied up to a horse corral without supervision?
“Explain in detail,” Kiran demanded.
“Which part?” Hallvar answered, feeling obstinate now that they weren’t half dead. They remembered the vow not to cooperate, which didn’t have any practical flaws or issues whatsoever.
“The part with the rock.”
“I threw a rock and it hit the princess.”
Kiran wanted to throttle the boy. “Were you trying to hit the princess?”
“No, but I have very good luck. I wanted to hit the carriage.” There was a thought-filled pause. “I didn’t want to hit the carriage, really. I just needed to throw the rock.”
The retired knight drew on her well of questionable patience, counting up to ten and back down. The prisoner was sick from the heat.
“Start from before you wanted to throw the rock, then tell me what happened between that moment and right now.”
Hallvar squinted at the woman. They weren’t dumb.
They decided to comply maliciously, a building sense of frustration with this entire world, especially since their first ever conversation had to be a fucking interrogation.
“If you insist. I took a quest to go mining and I was ambushed by monsters. I had my guts spilled and then shoved back in, then I got lost and followed a road to some smoke in the sky. The carriage nearly ran me over and it was the second fucking time that gold fucking carriage nearly hit me, so I threw a rock at it, but my luck is so high that it hit the window then hit the princess.”
Hallvar kept going, undeterred by the woman’s surprised expression.
“I’ve spent a month unable to understand any language, so I couldn’t explain to the princess, and she said something weird to me and then I could suddenly understand language. Which gave me a twelve hour long magic sickness and I don’t even know what that means, except that I kept throwing up and felt terrible.”
They were getting into the story now, weeks of pent-up anger spilling out.
“So I was shoved into a dark cart for hours with a fucking welcome to Asterisk message in my mind and I passed out, but I couldn’t manage to stay awake for more than a minute or two, then you woke me up and started asking all these fucking questions. All I know is that I hit the princess with a rock; I couldn’t understand a word of what was said!”
Hallvar glared at the lady, shifting their head as if to ask if that was finally enough information for her.
“Asterisk?”
With a huff, Hallvar replied. “The name of your world.”
“Aestrux. Do you not know that?”
They groaned and attempted to get to their knees. “I’m leaving.”
The attempted escape failed, as Hallvar’s exceptional endurance was worn thin. Their limbs felt weak and heavy.
Kiran was lost for words. She had so many questions, but the prisoner didn’t seem entirely capable at the moment.
Her mind jumped to practicality first and foremost. She rifled through a bag of goods, pulling out a few springs of a green herb.
“Eat this. Which adventurer’s guild do you work for? Viktor’s?” It was the closest and the most logical.
“What is it?” Hallvar asked, chewing on the plant anyway. It tasted like spicier mint.
“It helps nausea. Did you hear me about the guild?”
“I don’t know any names. Of anyone or anything. Except for Aestrux and Amnesty.”
“Amnasín.” Kiran’s corrections were polite enough, now that she understood this person didn’t intend to be so… stupid. “Could you describe the guildmaster? Are you from here or—”
With a sudden motion that Hallvar instantly regretted, they searched for their bag, throwing open the flap to dig for their sketchbook. They flipped through a few pages and pointed at a drawing of the looming man.
“Him.”
Kiran nodded. “That’s Viktor.”
She pressed the waterskin into the boy’s hands and pushed their shoulder insistently, guiding them to lay back down.
“Stay here and be quiet. If the soldiers catch you, they’ll arrest you again. As it stands, I think they’ve forgotten you’re supposed to be a prisoner. It may be a while before I return.”
Hallvar eyed her, unclear why she was helping but unwilling to fight any of these orders. They could act defiant but in their current condition, they had as much energy as a dead fish.
She climbed out of the wagon, tying the canvas shut and grabbing the monster skins. Kiran needed to clean up the rope scraps from the corral and dump these skins somewhere, a shop if she could find one, a mud pit if not.
She was certain that if the prisoner – and all proof of their existence – went missing, none of the soldiers would be willing to mention the problem to their superiors. If the princess no longer cared to persecute the poor bastard, then there was no crime.
Hallvar made themselves comfortable in the wagon, keen to take a half-decent nap. Maybe they would be jarred awake and arrested again, but a few minutes of peace felt well and truly deserved.