image [https://i.imgur.com/sANgW7w.jpg]

Before I reached the settlement, I pulled out Gladius. “Do you know anything about Oxum?”

“I do indeed. Would you prefer a historical perspective or its state today?”

“Both, but let’s start with its general history.”

“Humans arrived on the north shore from a faraway continent long ago. Over the centuries, a fog permeating its banks enshrouded the land, forcing people to higher ground elsewhere. It left Oxum as one of the continent’s oldest inhabited settlements.”

I interrupted my sword’s buzzing dissertation. “Before you go further, what is the fog—the aerocline?”

“None have explained its source, but it predates civilization. Most scholars agree it’s a cyclic weather pattern spanning hundreds, if not thousands of years. Its ebb allowed humans to discover Miros, and its rise pushed them to discover rivers in the east and west. Today, its high elevation directs marine traffic to the southern waters.”

“Is Oxum older than Grayton or Malibar?”

“By centuries, though it has not thrived in isolation.”

“What’s it like today?”

“Oxum hasn’t fully recovered from a plague dating back two hundred years. Its last census reported under 600 citizens, but these figures are 25 years old, and the population has been in decline. Alderman Shurin of the Twilight Council presides over the settlement.”

“What is he like?”

“I’m afraid he’s achieved no notable distinctions.”

“Do you know anything about a dungeon overlooking the northwest bluff?”

“Abandoned structures rest on every side of the mesa, but there are no reports of a dungeon.”

Gladius was never one for color commentary, and his out-of-date information only gave me a general idea of what to expect. He listed no glaring red flags or reasons to avoid the town.

The air’s chill matched Oxum’s eerie mood. The townspeople bundled up. Hoods concealed all but chins. High collars covered all but eyes, which peered at the ground. Hunched citizens hurried to their destinations, faces downward as if to dissuade chance encounters.

The standoffish costumes reflected the architecture’s grim determination to keeping more than the elements at bay. Oxum’s buildings embraced a drab concoction of classic medieval wattle and daub construction. Instead of a white lime mixture of construction materials, houses had muddy brown walls matching the weathered timber framing them.

The chimneys looked thicker than necessary, but the windows made the greatest impression. At first, I mistook the windows for arrow slits. Their deep insets showed the outer walls’ unnecessary thickness. The restrictive openings defeated the purpose of letting in light, making me wonder if their design was for the opposite—to prevent anyone from seeing out or in.

Rows of rusty iron bars netted the thatched rooftops, weighing down the matted vegetable matter. It all seemed so unnecessarily stalwart, as if it were a town under siege by invisible forces.

Catching anyone’s eye proved impossible, as most pedestrians stared at their feet. But enough city boy endured in me that intruding on their dreary routine wouldn’t deter me from finding a place to stay.

Shielding Gladdy’s glowing blue tail behind me, I approached one of the slowest citizens, an old NPC whose nameplate read “Farly, Deep Elf Baker.” I saw no bosom beneath the bundled clothes, so I assumed it to be a male. He pushed a rickety handcart, a knotted pinewood contraption whose wooden creaks sounded more like long screams.

The noise only stopped after I stood in front of him.

“Excuse me, can you direct me to a local inn?”

Without looking up, he pointed with a sleeve so long I couldn’t see his hand. After lowering his arm, he stood motionless, showing no desire for me to remove myself from his path.

“Um, thanks.”

Behind me, the handcart renewed its drawn-out groans.

After walking for a minute, I saw no signs or storefronts of any kind and repeated the request with several passersby until one pointed toward a building that looked like any other on the street.

Instead of trying the front door, I circled to the back, for the rears of inns were always open to their cooking areas. The scent of brill curry greeted me at a recessed doorway so deep it felt like a mini-alley. A gnarled dwarf nameplate read, “Mary Wake, Dwarven Cook.”

“Excuse me, can I buy a plate of your curry and a pint for a silver piece?”

My query elicited the same reaction. Without indicating the dwarf had heard anything, she prepared a meal and took the sliver without a glance. But she surprised me when she spoke in common. “I’m closing up for the evening. Return the earthenware on the morrow.”

The sun still hung in the sky, but I didn’t argue.

It was a strange interaction. Mary hadn’t assumed I was staying in the inn—which was correct, for I planned to find an empty paddock in the barn, toss up the Dark Room, and sleep in safety. I only needed 8 hours to reset my cooldowns and could be out of the building before the animal handlers performed their morning duties. Bales of hay made excellent accommodations to anyone as weary as me, and hiding in the barn kept me out of harm’s way if Duchess showed up. The fewer people I talked to, the better.

The image of her prying information out of these dour people amused me.

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

I awoke in the Dark Room to the noise of rustling from below. Patches of light filtered through the barn’s side, cluing me I’d forgotten to set the alarm to my internal game clock. Not only had I missed dawn, but I’d slept through breakfast. It served me right to push myself so hard, but if a late start was the only consequence, I had no regrets.

The slumber refreshed me and reset my daily powers—which were two very different and essential things. I’d never know physical exertion like I’d experienced in Miros. Players could obey the 8-hour sleep rule, reset their cooldowns, and still wake up tired.

I checked the contest interface to see if anyone was chatty, but the endgame levied a seriousness that silenced us all. Reaching the final four extinguished congeniality. The leaderboard showed all four names. The aerocline hadn’t claimed Duchess overnight—she still lived and at level 26.

Rather than raise questions from a suspicious animal handler, I climbed out of the Dark Room unnoticed, Slipstreamed through cracks in the barn, and appeared outside.

“There you are. Mary told me she had a lodger in the loft, but I didn’t see you.” A voice from behind startled me. It belonged to a low-level deep elf named Luther. He was young, almost my age, and leaned on his pitchfork in a friendly posture. He sounded more surprised that I was awake than using Slipstream to manifest outside the barn.

“Oh, yeah. Um, sorry about crashing in your barn. I can pay you whatever the going rate is for lodging.”

Luther waved dismissively. “No harm done. I won’t tell if you won’t.”

His affability struck me as unusual in this town.

“Thanks. Is it too late for breakfast?”

“That depends on how quick you can be. Old Mary’s turning down the rooms this hour. You have your fill of all the leftovers you want if you don’t mind reusing your bowl.”

After thanking Luther, I returned with a bowl refilled with spiced porridge and sausage. I placed a silver piece beneath the pot of unserved food. Mary would find it when she cleaned up. Between mouthfuls, I asked Luther questions. “Have you seen any foreign girls this morning?”

“Nope. We get only locals in the off-season. Most out-of-towners are just brill catchers—and I near recognize them all.”

“If you see someone named Duchess, don’t mention that you saw me. In fact, don’t tell anyone.” I flipped him a gold piece, and he caught it—unimpressed by my directness.

“Folks from out of town don’t tell me their business. I see no reason I should tell them mine. What’s she look like?”

“I can’t say for sure. She covers her face with a shroud.”

Luther’s eyebrows raised. “She sounds local. A zom?”

“Excuse me?”

“Is she a zom?”

“No. At least, I don’t think so. Is that a zombie?”

“Not quite. Zoms are survived zombies—people that have been bit but haven’t gone mad or undead. We have lots of ‘em in town—but crazies and full-on zombies go to the lower tier.”

“The lower tier isn’t in the northwest by any chance, is it?”

“It’s the whole north side of the mesa.”

“Have you heard of a dungeon on the northwest?”

“No, but the old bughouse stands there—if that’s what you mean.”

“Bughouse?”

“It’s the old monastery. Monks converted it into a sanctuary for infected people until the townsfolk overran it. As the story goes, there was a siege.”

The cadence of our conversation made me believe Luther wouldn’t blather about my whereabouts. He made me ask for explanations about everything he spoke of. “Why would townsfolk attack a place of healing?”

“It doesn’t look like a place of healing. I liken it to a fortress. The monks had to stop people from breaking out their loved ones and stop those inside from escaping.”

“And they called it the bughouse.”

“A-yep. No one wanted their kin in such a place. After rescuing their folk, the mob burned it to the ground, including the monks and other patients. Nasty business all around.” Luther snorted and spat.

No matter how advanced people were, quarantines were unpopular measures. By rescuing their loved ones, the villagers must have spread the zombie pox to the entire mesa, ensuring Oxum’s decline. In either case, Toadkiller picked out a delightful place to secrete his weakness.

“Where is the mailbox?”

“By the alderman’s pulpit in the circus.” Luther gestured north.

To most Americans, mentioning a circus conjured centuries-old traveling shows, but I’d learned enough about Miros to know he meant a circular street—likely the center of Oxum’s town.

I waved farewell after returning the bowl to the kitchen.

Oxum’s citizenry looked less downtrodden in the morning, though I had made no friends on my way to the center of town. I wasn’t trying. Instead, I blended in by wrapping myself in a cape, hiding my equipment and armor to avoid attention.

The circus was easy enough to find, and by a pavilion stood a mailbox. My interaction with the device hadn’t drawn so much as a curious look, and I received a single promised letter from Darkstep.

From Darkstep, sent 4 days ago in Susa Postal Box #3

To Apache, received 0 days ago in Oxum Postal Box #1

Subject Onward

Good Morning,

As you can see, I didn’t mention Fabulosa because she plays no part in the endgame. I know you were close and planned to reach the final two, so accept condolences for your absent friend.

As I have promised, nothing has changed. It is good that you are rested. The sooner you go north and clear the dungeon, the better your chances are for knocking out Toadkiller. In your moment of imminent doom, look up for salvation.

Good luck,

Darkstep

Darkstep sent this message four days ago. He must have sent it when I opened his first letter in Heaven’s Falls, but he referred to Fabulosa’s death in the past tense. His “Good Morning” greeting and reference to my rested state confirmed suspicions he could somehow see into the future—or fake time stamps in The Book of Dungeons mail system. I didn’t know which posed a more dangerous opponent ability—seeing the future or a player who could hack the game. I certainly hoped for the latter, for Crimson would almost certainly disqualify him.

At the very least, he had omniscience, though it couldn’t be through Improved Eyes—a measly tier 2 light magic spell. If Improved Eyes were that powerful, everyone would use them. Was it possible he possessed an item that enhanced their ability?

The line about looking up for salvation contained enough specifics to make him credible. It meant nothing to me, and I didn’t think it was a metaphor to interpret. I would learn more. I had to remember to look up in case I ever found trouble.

Ultimately, none of Darkstep’s words conveyed proof, aside from his knack for predicting the future. But even soothsayers could lie to further their ends, and Darkstep wasn’t feeding me intel out of the goodness of his heart. It served our mutual interest to knock out Toadkiller. Temporary alliances were fine, though it irritated me that only my neck was the one on the line.

The letter confirmed his grip on events and encouraged me to trust him. Those could also be two reasons not to trust him, but what other choice had I? Should I ignore an advantage to spite an uninvolved level 18 player who otherwise didn’t seem to be part of the battle royale?

He knew my feelings for Charitybelle, so perhaps he sympathized with my cause. He still talked like an adult.

Could he possibly be a Crimson dev helping a hard-luck contestant from Atlantic City? It seemed too much to hope for, but the tone of his voice wasn’t spiteful or aggressive. If anything, he seemed understanding, although it irked me he wouldn’t reveal what awaited at the bottom of the dungeon.

And he’d logged off from the chat channel. Even if I were foolish enough to ask for clarification, I saw no way to reach him except through mail.

I considered sending a letter, then decided against it. With Toadkiller on his way, I’d have no time to wait for a reply. If I were to dance to his fiddle, I might as well embrace the role.

Darkstep’s letter left me in an uneasy mood, and I’d been feeling so much better, too.

I summoned Jasper and urged him northward. The main mesa stretched barely a dozen miles, so I’d reach the northern face in no time. My Familiar eagerly kicked up his hooves, and we shot out of town.