Though the hour was late and the curfew in effect, Benjamin made it back to the Lither estate without incident, safely ensconced by his knightly escort.

Slipping past the watchful eyes of the night servants, he stole back to his bedchamber, his movements undetected. Once the door was securely bolted, he collapsed onto the bed, fishing out the crucifix and admiring it with unabashed delight.

The pendant was a dainty thing, wrought of silver and exquisitely crafted. As Benjamin pressed it to his brow, he could feel the faintest whisper of sanctified energy radiating from within, pure and incorruptible.

So this was the power of holy magic.

Compared to the arcane arts, the common folk of the Horian Kingdom were far more familiar with the divine workings of the Church. Every town had its chapel, every parish its priest, and scarcely a soul hadn't born witness to some miracle or another.

According to Church doctrine, holy magic was a gift from the Almighty, a sacred bulwark against the depredations of the infernal host.

Legend told of an age long past, when demons ran rampant across the land, sowing famine, pestilence, and strife in their wake. Mankind eked out a wretched existence, the promise of a peaceful life little more than a distant dream.

Then came a pair of brothers, Cain and Abel. None knew whence they hailed, but both were driven by a singular purpose: to deliver humanity from the clutches of demonkind and usher in a new era of hope. Time and again they met with failure, until at last Cain offered himself up as a sacrifice to the forces of darkness, gaining great power thereby. In the end, he used his ever-growing might to turn the tables on the fiends, banishing them and restoring tranquility to the world.

Alas, the peace was short-lived. Tainted by his unholy bargain, Cain grew increasingly brutal and duplicitous, a cruel mirror of the very demons he'd ousted. He began to enslave the people, wage wars of conquest, and slaughter the innocent, plunging the world back into chaos scarcely a heartbeat after rescuing it.

Abel watched his brother's fall from grace with mounting dread. In the aftermath of yet another bloody campaign, he knelt in prayer within the opulent halls of Cain's palace, in full view of the tyrant himself. Enraged, Cain had Abel clapped in irons and crucified, left to suffer untold agonies. Seven days later, Abel vanished, only to reappear before his brother wielding the power of holy magic.

What transpired in the intervening time, none could say. But all bore witness to what followed - a titanic clash between the newly anointed Abel and his fallen sibling.

In the end, Abel emerged triumphant.

As he prepared to purge Cain's corruption with the searing light of sanctity, his brother wept, seeming to revert to his former self. He spoke of happier times, of the bond they once shared, his lamentations moving Abel to mercy. Letting down his guard, Abel turned his back for but a moment - a moment Cain seized to strike a coward's blow, consuming Abel in a gout of profane fire.

Even as Cain gloated over the ashes, a divine radiance split the heavens, fixing him in its implacable glare. The voice of the Almighty rang out, demanding Abel's whereabouts. Cain merely scoffed, denying all knowledge. Disgusted by this brazen falsehood, the Lord made to strip Cain of his ill-gotten power and cast him out to wander forevermore. Cain, enraged, rejected this judgement and, shedding his lifeblood, wove a mighty curse to seal the world away from the sight of both Heaven and Hell. Thus did the mortal realm become a land forsaken by God.

Cain perished soon after, drained by his foul working, but his tainted blood seeped into the earth, ensuring demonkind's legacy would endure. The world, once more gripped by chaos, descended into an orgy of violence as those imbued with the dark gift turned upon one another, while common folk cowered in the shadows, struggling to survive.

Until one day, a young man knelt in the very spot where Abel breathed his last and clasped his hands in prayer. A beam of purest light rose from his conjoined palms, bursting across the night sky like celestial fireworks, reflected in the eyes of all who gazed up in wonder. Thus was holy magic bestowed upon mankind, and the pious youth hailed as the first Pope of the nascent Church.

Plunging his hands into the scorched earth that had cradled Abel's remains, the Pope withdrew a fractured blade. The moment his fingers brushed its surface, a single phrase echoed in his mind:

"The sacred light embraces the world."

This relic would go on to become the Church's most hallowed treasure, enshrined in the deepest sanctum of St. Peter's Cathedral, and those words the first of the divine commandments, recited by the faithful across the generations.

Such was the tale the Church told of magic's origins, both holy and profane.

When the AI first relayed this story to Benjamin, he couldn't help but notice the striking parallels to the myths of his own world. Figures like Cain and Abel, with their all-too-familiar tragic arc, strained the bounds of mere coincidence.

Could there be some deeper connection between this realm and his own?

Alas, the answer eluded him.

This world was a different beast entirely. Magic, miracles, the shattered boundaries of human potential… for all he knew, the gods of legend were simply mortals of nigh-incomprehensible power.

The old myths might very well have a grain of truth to them - though the Church's version could be just one of many. No doubt the Mages had their own take, with the priests cast in a rather less flattering light.

The thought brought a wry smile to Benjamin's lips.

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If these tales did have some basis in historical fact, they could well hold the key to unraveling the fundamental mysteries of this world. But to even contemplate such a feat in his current state… well, that was quite the lofty goal for a regular Joe barely a week into his new fantasy life.

Better to focus on the basics. Like not getting himself killed in some awful way.

Benjamin felt the sandman's siren call. Stowing the crucifix with reverent care, he made quick work of his ablutions, doused the bedside lamp, and slipped between the sheets. Scarcely had his head touched the pillow before sleep claimed him, a deep and dreamless oblivion.

Perhaps it was the exhaustion of having gone so long without proper sleep, but this time Benjamin slumbered like the dead. By the time he finally awoke, it was nearly noon of the following day.

And it was not of his own accord that he rejoined the world of the living.

"Benjamin! Wake up, it's time to go! Rise and shine!" A grating voice cut through the fog of slumber, rousing him from his torpor.

Benjamin cracked open bleary eyes, still half-mired in the muzziness of interrupted dreams.

"Out of bed, lazybones, we're going to be late!" The ear-splitting entreaties continued to assail him, but it was the mention of lateness that truly snapped him to attention, a surge of pre-transmigration memories flooding his sleep-addled brain.

Late? Late for what?

Good grief, don't tell me I have an early lecture…

Benjamin scrubbed at his face, forcing his eyes to focus. There, looming over his bed, was a boy of an age with himself and of strikingly similar countenance. Hands gripped Benjamin's shoulders, shaking him with ungentle fervor.

Grantt Lither. His brother.

"Wha… what's going on?" Benjamin stammered out, still fuzzy and disoriented.

According to the AI's dossier, he and Grantt were ostensibly on good terms - his sibling held no particular disdain for Benjamin's black sheep status. But for the Benjamin of here and now, this was his first proper interaction with Grantt. To say the current situation fell somewhat outside his expectations would be putting it mildly.

And what was all this nonsense about being late and having to go? Go where, exactly?

"Don't tell me you forgot? Today's the day we make war, now quit your lollygagging and get a move on before we miss the whole thing!" Grantt urged, brooking no argument.

Make war?

Benjamin goggled at his brother, jaw dangling somewhere in the vicinity of his navel. And yet Grantt's expression remained deadly serious, even taking on a vaguely fanatical sheen, not a hint of levity to be found.

"…"

After a long moment of glassy-eyed incomprehension, Benjamin flopped back down onto the bed, rolling over and burrowing into the pillows.

Clearly, this was all some sort of bizarre dream.

And if his subconscious was content to marinate in violent absurdity, who was he to fight it? All he asked was that it kindly refrain from cutting his hard-earned beauty sleep short. This was a very expensive mattress, after all.

"Hey! No more lazing about, up and at 'em!" Alas, Grantt stubbornly failed to dissolve into the ether like a proper figment. If anything, his efforts to rouse Benjamin only redoubled, the vigorous shaking threatening to purge Benjamin's stomach of what little it contained.

Admitting defeat, Benjamin levered himself upright once more, cracking open an eye.

"So… not a dream, then?" he ventured.

"Decidedly not," Grantt confirmed.

"…"

Benjamin was at a loss. This was all a bit much to process on zero caffeine.

Ever since crash-landing in this bizarro world, his mornings had been relentlessly cursed. Abducted by witches, accosted by sleepwalking cretins… and now, apparently, he'd napped through the eve of Armageddon. Just how long had he been out?

And this war business… they were seriously going off to battle?

"Quit dawdling and get dressed already! Hustle, hustle, hustle…"

"Alright, alright, I'm hustling! Ease up before I lose my lunch!"

Cowed by Grantt's manic haranguing, Benjamin found himself bustled out of bed and through his morning routine like a lamb to slaughter, head still foggy and reeling. Before he could even try to get a word in, Grantt had grabbed him by the arm and hauled him bodily out the front door at a sprint.

Not a single servant batted an eye at this display. Apparently, it was par for the course at Casa de Lither.

As the cobwebs fell away, a put-upon Benjamin turned inward, seeking the counsel of his ever-present silicon sidekick:

"Any idea what the hell's going on?"

The AI's response was as languid as it was cryptic. "Nothing to get your knickers in a bunch over. Just a spot of roughhousing for the idle rich."

Needless to say, this failed to satisfy on any level.

"Care to elaborate? What kind of roughhousing involves marching off to war before lunch? Are we trading blows with some other toffs' bratty offspring, or what?" Benjamin pressed, thoroughly unamused.

"Hmm…" The AI paused, as if pondering the question. "In a nutshell… yeah, pretty much."

"Gee, thanks for clearing that up." Benjamin's tone could have stripped paint.

"Oy, don't get your silks in a twist, it's not all that serious. Cross my heart," the AI proclaimed, blithely unruffled. "Why the rush? Spelling it out would take donkey's years. Just keep your shirt on, you'll suss it out soon enough."

… Was the AI truly on the level?

Benjamin couldn't help but harbor some doubts on that score.

The System's failings were already legion. To that bill of particulars, Benjamin could now add "work-shy" in bold, underlined script.

Clearly, he'd get no straight answer out of that gnomic bucket of bolts. And one look at Grantt's single-minded mania made it plain that he was in no state for a nuanced heart-to-heart. Resigning himself to utter bafflement, Benjamin simply focused on keeping pace and not passing out, trusting that wherever his brother was dragging him would shed some light on this farce.

And so the fine folk of Havenlight's inner districts were treated to the sight of two young lordlings pelting down the high street, one wearing the haggard mien of a man who'd long since abandoned any pretense of control over his fate.

Mercifully, their destination proved close at hand - after a few minutes of breathless sprinting, Grantt skidded to a stop.

They were still in the inner city, albeit a decidedly less-traveled quarter. Before them loomed a derelict castle, long in the tooth but no less imposing for its age and modest scale. Even so, its very presence within the city walls gave Benjamin pause.

A small crowd had gathered at the castle gates, numbering a dozen or so in all. A closer look revealed them to be exclusively adolescent boys, all decked out in upper-crust finery - a point in favor of the AI's glib "idle rich" assessment, irritatingly enough.

Even so, Benjamin's core befuddlement persisted. Just what was this little meet-and-greet in aid of?

"There you are! Cutting it close, aren't we?" called out one of the assembled youths, breaking from the group to greet the stragglers.

"Still made it before kick-off, didn't we? Don't get your knickers in a twist," Grantt shot back without missing a beat.

The boy waved it off. "Fair enough, fair enough. Right, let's get this show on the road. You know the drill - scatter, festivities commence in ten." At his words, the motley band began filing into the castle proper.

Commence what, exactly? What was the game here…?

Though the shape of the affair continued to elude him, one detail in particular caught Benjamin's eye - skulking among the pack was none other than Dick Fur himself.

As if sensing Benjamin's gaze, Dick chose that moment to throw a look over his shoulder. Their eyes met and Dick's face twisted into a mask of naked malice, a threatening gesture and a general air of "you're dead meat" completing the picture.

Benjamin's patience, already stretched tissue-thin, threatened to snap entirely.

Of all the rotten luck… what was that insufferable pillock doing here?