Being an Inquisitor sucks hard. I mean, it’s the absolute worst.
Thirty minutes ago, I was entwined in bed with Renica, a beautiful, blonde huntress. I’d been warm, happy, and relatively safe. Granted, a few hours before that I’d been fighting for not only my life but the lives of probably half the people in the kingdom of Vutana against a mad Sorvaraji, a kind of priestess, but I’d beaten her through good planning and a bit of luck. I kind of felt that I was entitled to a reward other than another tattoo on my chest – maybe spending a few days with Renica, ignoring the world’s problems and seeing how avid a learner she was in the ways of the bedroom.
Apparently, the damn Doorverse disagreed with me.
“Deadly Lunge!”
A woman with pale blue hair, deeply tanned skin, and a long, narrow face held up what looked like a playing card. The card flashed, and the monster before her, a dark grey wolf with a scorpion’s tail jutting from its back, leaped forward. It left a cloud of dust behind it as its legs blurred, propelling it down the dirt road directly at me. I reached for the hatchet at my waist and swore as instead, I felt a looped coil of leather that reminded me suspiciously of a whip. The problem was, I had no idea how to use a fucking whip beyond what I’d seen in Indiana Jones movies, so the weapon was about as useful to me as a feather.
I dove to the side, but my body felt clumsy and heavy as the curse Menogra the Black had laid upon me activated, sapping my strength and will. I staggered and tripped instead of diving into a neat roll, my booted feet tangling about one another and keeping me from scrambling to my feet. I half-crawled, half-rolled sideways, expecting the wolf’s jaws or pincer tail to rip into me at any moment, but the creature merely brushed me aside as it rushed toward the froglike creature opposite it.
“Slime Armor!”
I sat up and glanced to my left where a short man with dark green hair, lighter skin than the woman’s, and a slightly stout frame held up a square card that also glowed with power. The four-foot-tall, blue-skinned frog in front of him pulsed for a moment, and its spike-coated skin took on an oily sheen just as the wolf reached it. The wolf’s tail flashed forward, its spike plunging toward the frog, but the needle tip slipped off the frog’s skin without seeming to do any damage.
The frog opened its mouth and let out a loud, belching croak. The sound of its cry rippled from its mouth, a visible wave in the dust rising from the street, and caught me in my side, tossing me end-over-end and leaving me laying on my stomach in the dust. Dirt filled my mouth and stung my eyes, and I spat and choked as I breathed it in unwittingly. I put my hands under me, intending to stand, but before I could, a strong hand grabbed the back of my shirt and hauled me to my feet.
“You should know better than to go near the street when a duel’s happening, stranger,” a deep, laid-back voice spoke unconcernedly. “That’s a good way for a man to get himself killed.”
I rubbed the dirt from my eyes and looked over at the person who’d dragged me out of the way. The speaker was a man, a few inches taller than me, with a lanky body that belied the strength I’d just felt in his arms. He wore a dark blue shirt of what looked like heavy cotton, denim pants of a matching color, and a wide-brimmed white felt hat on his head to ward off the blazing green sun overhead. His face was long and narrow just like the man and woman I’d seen already, but his skin was darker and lined with the beginnings of wrinkles, making me think that he was probably in his late forties or early fifties. He sported a lavender mustache dappled with gray, and the hair that poked out from beneath his hat looked the same. A black leather vest across his chest had bulging, rectangular pockets, and a dusty but serviceable-looking revolver hung from his hip.
Most importantly, he had a brass, seven-pointed star pinned to his chest. I couldn’t read the ornate script scrawled across it, but I had a feeling it read something like ‘sheriff’ or ‘marshal’. If this was the Old West, then I was looking at the law for whatever town I’d found myself in. The sheriff glanced over me, looking me up and down before seeming to dismiss me as he turned to watch the duel. I took the moment to look around and gain my bearings. I wanted to watch the monster fight, of course, but I wanted to have some idea of where the hell I was even more.
I stood at the edge of a wide, dirt street that ran to my right and left. Wooden buildings crowded together opposite me, separated from the road by an unpolished wooden railing with gaps every ten feet or so. A sidewalk of wooden slats ran between the buildings and the railing, and people of all sorts gathered along the rail, watching the fight. Almost everyone, men and women, dressed similarly, in cotton or linen shirts and denim or cotton pants. They all looked lean and lanky, with narrow faces, larger than normal noses, and wider eyes than humans. Their hair tended to pastels, and most had tanned skin. I only saw a couple dozen people, and when I looked back, I counted a similar number behind me. If this was everyone in town, it was a pretty small town; it was just as likely, I supposed, that these were just the people who wanted to watch the fight.
Speaking of the fight, I turned my attention back to it. The wolf had recovered from the frog’s attack and stalked around the creature, stabbing at it with its tail. The frog hopped about to keep facing the wolf, then opened its mouth once more. Instead of croaking this time, it lashed out with a sticky tongue that smacked into the wolf, entangling one of its legs. I noticed that small but sharp teeth filled the frog’s mouth, and I saw its legs bunch beneath it as it prepared to leap on the wolf and bite. Beside me, the sheriff sighed.
“Well, that was plain stupid,” he muttered.
“Stupid?” I echoed, but before I could ask, the wolf’s tail lashed down once again. This time, it lanced down not at the frog but into its tongue, piercing the thin band of muscle. The frog croaked loudly and seemed to try to retract its tongue, but the ice-blue strip of flesh lay unmoving, probably paralyzed by the wolf’s sting.
“Yep, stupid. This thing’s almost at an end unless Boden’s got himself a Neutralize rune.”
Apparently, Boden – who I assumed was the short man – didn’t have the rune that the sheriff mentioned. His face looked a bit panicked as whatever poison was in the wolf’s tail seemed to travel up the frog’s tongue into its body, making the creature slower and less coordinated. He reached in his pocket and held up another square card.
“Flame Purge!” he said, his voice sounding desperate. The card flashed, and what looked like a tendril of fire curled out from it, striking the frog and wrapping around it. Orange fire rippled around the frog’s tongue, and an instant later, the appendage darted back into the thing’s mouth – but as the fire faded, I noticed that the frog’s skin no longer glistened. Apparently, Boden noticed the same thing, as he pulled out another card.
“Slime Arm…!” The young man only got halfway through his shout before the card in his hand burst into flames that quickly consumed it. Boden screeched and dropped the card, shaking his hand in dismay, his eyes wide and round, and the sheriff beside me snorted.
“I’m calling it,” he said loudly, stepping forward. “Paisley, call off your wolfion. You’re the winner, here.”
“Screw that, Sheriff!” the woman named Paisley shouted back. “I’m sick of Boden talking about how great his toadspike is! We’ll see how much he’s bragging when my wolfion’s eating it for lunch!”
The sheriff pursed his lips and gave a soft, low whistle, and suddenly, a shadow passed over the street. I glanced up to see a large, winged figure soar out from over the buildings behind me. The creature swept overhead and tucked in its wings, diving toward the street. Everyone backed up as the beast slammed into the dirt road, its six powerful legs absorbing the impact of its landing with ease.
The new monster stood at least half again as tall as I did. Its body looked feline, covered with rust-colored scales instead of fur. It had a horse’s solid neck, but a crocodile’s head jutted from the end of that neck. Its two front legs had wicked-looking claws at the end, but the four back ones were hooved like a horse’s, which I suspected meant it could run fast if it needed to. The monster snorted and looked almost contemptuously at everyone around it, not that I blamed it. The damn thing looked like it could eat an actual horse and still have room for a cow or two – assuming this world had horses and cows, which I strongly suspected it didn’t.
“Disregarding an officer of the law is a crime in Murkburg, as you well know, Paisley,” the sheriff said in the same unruffled tone as before, even as he reached into one of his vest pockets and pulled out a trio of card-sized plaques, fanning them in the air before him. “Now, I’m willing to let this go, seeing as Boden, here, was going around insulting your wolfion like an idiot, and I know how much it means to you. If you don’t back it down right now, though, well…” He gave her an almost friendly smile. “You and me are gonna have some words, and those words might include, ‘Predator’s Bane’ and ‘Vorpal Bite’. You don’t want that, do you, Paisley?”
The woman swallowed hard and smacked her hand on her thigh. “N-no, Sheriff,” she stammered. “I’m sorry. I just got a little carried away, is all.”
“That’s fine. It happens to the best of us.” He looked around at the crowd. “I’m declaring Paisley, here, the winner of this duel, as Boden seems to be out of good defenses. Anyone object?” No one spoke, and he nodded. “Then let the record show that Paisley’s won this duel, and the matter between them is settled. Show’s over, folks. Everyone go back to what you were doing.”
I watched as the people near the railing behind me wandered off toward the nearest buildings. The one directly behind me had an honest-to-God swinging saloon door, the kind that pushes open in the middle and then swings shut behind you. Every other building had a regular wooden door, but none of them seemed particularly well built or ornately crafted. Everything around me looked utilitarian, like people had built the absolute minimum they needed for shelter and functionality and hadn’t bothered adding in any sort of finishing touches. I’d seen places like this before on Earth, when the people who lived there either didn’t expect to stay for long, or they worried that what they’d built would be knocked down or destroyed too often to bother making it look nice.
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“You,” the sheriff spoke, not looking in my direction but clearly talking to me. “Come with me. We need to talk.” The man turned and began walking away, but I held back slightly. I didn’t really want to piss off local law enforcement, but at the same time, I didn’t really want to deal with local law enforcement either. Police tended to ask questions, and I had no answers. A gap in the railing along the road a few feet behind me beckoned, and the narrow, two-foot alley between the saloon and whatever building lay next to it – I still couldn’t read the signs – practically screamed my name. I could slip back there, get out of sight, and maybe listen around for while before actually interacting with anyone in this world. It would be quite the novelty to know what I was talking about when I first met local authorities, after all.
Even as I considered that, though, I glanced over at the huge, six-legged monstrosity the sheriff called down and tossed any idea of flight out the window. That thing could catch me no matter where I ran if I stayed outside, and the sheriff’s revolver would prove a whole lot more effective than my whip if I went inside and let myself be cornered. I muttered slightly about that; this was obviously a world with at least early Industrial Age technology. Why the hell did I get a whip instead of a firearm?
“Because while your adaptive weapon can create firearms, John, it can’t create bullets for them, too,” Sara answered silently in my thoughts. “Plus, a firearm is a lot m ore complicated and so requires a lot more energy to make than something simple like a whip or a hatchet, and your Inquisitor level is too low to draw that kind of power just yet.”
“Wait, does that mean that as my Inquisitor level gets higher, my adaptive weapon gets better?”
“Well, yes. Think about it: on Kuan you got brass knuckles, about the simplest weapon there is out there. On Soluminos, you got a hatchet, definitely an upgrade. Now, you’ve got a whip, which is far more complex than a hatchet and can be more flexible once you learn how to use it. Mind you, Menogra’s curse steals some of your energy every time you enter a new world, too, and that also limits what I’ve got available to create a weapon for you.”
Well, that certainly sucked. That bitch Menogra wasn’t just sapping my stats every time I entered a new world; she was weakening the tools I had available to complete each mission. One day, I was going to beat her curse, and when I did, she was going to be the next mark on my list.
I shook off thoughts of revenge and began trudging down the dusty street behind the sheriff. The bright sun beat down on my bare head, and sweat beaded on my forehead and ran down the back of my neck, making the clouds of dust cling to my skin. Already, my neck itched from the fine, reddish dust, and I felt my sweat slowly trickling down my back to soak my shirt.
We mounted the wooden sidewalk, and as we did, I glanced in a darkened window to get a glimpse of my new appearance. I had the same long, narrow features as everyone else, with lemon-yellow hair that was starting to plaster flat against my head and pale skin with only a hint of a tan. My nose was long and slightly hooked, and my eyes were large and round, although I couldn’t make out the color in the distorted reflection. I glanced down and saw that I wore a light brown cotton shirt with long sleeves, heavy, dark brown denim pants, and black leather boots that thumped heavily on the wooden slats as I walked. I looked away from my outfit and took a quick glimpse at how entering this new world had affected me.
John Gilliam, Guardian of the Sun
Mental Stats
Reason: 24 Intuition: 20 Perception: 25 Charm: 8
Physical Stats
Prowess: 14 Vigor: 11 Celerity: 11 Skill: 15
Professions
Inquisitor (Hidden, Divine): Level 4, XP: 17,667/58,800
Pugilist (Common): Level 4, XP: 900/1,600
Celestial Guardian (Locked, Extraordinary): Level 4, XP: 5,160/12,800
Alchemist (Unusual): Level 2, XP: 425/600
Undead Hunter (Locked, Unusual): Level 3, XP: 979/1,700
Warrior (Common): Level 2, XP: 389/400
Scholar (Common): Level 6, XP: 3,106/3,600
Investigator (Standard): Level 4, XP: 2,307/2,400
Etfelyen (Locked, Extraordinary): Level 4, XP: 10,235/12,800
Sailor (Common): Level 1, XP: 34/100
“All right, Sara, tell me what you know about this new world – and let’s see what we’ve got for starting professions here.”
“I can help you with the first, John,” she replied a bit hesitantly, her voice uncertain in my head, “but you might have to give me a bit for the second.”
“Is something wrong?”
“Not wrong, no. This world’s energy field is – strange.”
“Strange doesn’t tell me much, Sara,” I pointed out. “Strange how? Could it have something to do with why I’m here?”
“It’s possible, but…” She sighed. “No, I don’t think so. You see, usually, when you enter a new world, I have to watch how that world’s energy patterns resonate with you, then decode that into a language you can understand. It takes time and effort, and it’s why I only offer you the ones most likely to be useful; they’re the ones that you resonate best with, so they’re the ones I can translate most easily.”
“And now, you’re having trouble translating them?”
“No, just the opposite. It’s like the world was waiting for me to ask about professions and had a response cued up and ready to go. It’s just – the offerings are a little sparse. Here, I’ll show you.” A new screen flashed in my vision, one I’d seen many times before – but this one was far smaller than what I usually saw upon entering a world.
Professions Available
Hunter
Standard
A handler who focuses on commanding large numbers of weaker pets.
Shaper
Standard
A handler who focuses on using rune cards in combat
Tamer
Standard
A handler who focuses on training a single powerful pet
“Wait, so that’s it?” I asked in confusion. “This is the Old West, Sara. Aren’t there professions like gunfighter, or cowboy, or bounty hunter, or something like that?”
“Not that I can find, no,” she sighed with a tinge of exasperation. “No matter how I query this world’s energy field, that’s all I get. It’s like the world itself chose those professions to display, and it refuses to show any others. I’ll work on it, but for right now, you might want to wait to learn more before making any decisions. None of those three feel very intuitive to me.”
“Yeah, me either,” I agreed with a silent sigh. “Wait, if this world is so responsive, does that mean you already know its ratings?”
“Sorry, no,” she laughed. “It’s only responding like that to profession requests. I’m still going to have to work out the ratings on my own, but here’s what I’ve got so far.”
A familiar screen popped up, and I glanced over it, not really reading much except the last part.
Doorworld: Puraschim
Magic Rating: 30-50
Tech Rating: 60-80
Bio Rating: 60-80
Estimated time for full analysis: 3:18:51
“So, roughly, what does that mean?” I asked.
“Well, magically, the world’s energy field feels weaker than normal but strong enough to support most magic. I’d guess that most people can use magic, but most of the spells are small or minor, and only talented people can cast spells with the kind of power that you had on Soluminos.
“The world’s energy doesn’t seem to be interfering with technology too much,” she added. “Obviously, chemical combustion works, and so does at least some advanced metallurgy, which suggests that steam power and rudimentary electromagnetic transmission also function – although that’s not certain. How well those function is the real question. It could be that the civilization is close to the top of what their world’s tech allows, or it could be that they just haven’t discovered more advanced technologies.
“And this world’s energy field interacts fairly strongly with the bioweb of the planet,” she finished. “That suggests that there’s a lot of biodiversity, evolution is constant and ongoing, forms likely aren’t standardized, and there are probably thousands or millions of species filling every biological niche.”
I blinked, my foggy, slowed-down brain trying to process what she’d just said to me. “Mind trying that again in English? New body, new brain, new level of stupid here, remember?”
“Sorry,” she replied sheepishly. “Basically, magic is weaker here than in Soluminos, technology is probably significantly more advanced, and there are going to be a lot more species of animals than you saw there – and they’ll be a lot more of what you’d consider ‘monstrous’.”
“Okay, that makes sense,” I sighed. “Less magic, more tech, more monsters. Got it.” Already, I was missing my old body and brain from Soluminos, and I hadn’t been in this world – Puraschim – for an hour yet. I needed to start figuring out how this new world worked asap to reduce the curse’s effect on me and get my brain working again.
The sheriff opened poorly fitted wooden door to a building and stepped inside, and I followed dutifully along behind him, out of the bright sunlight into the shadows beyond, hoping that I wasn’t walking into the proverbial lion’s den – and not sure what I could do if I were.