The messages confuse me, floating around as a disembodied mind. I'm in a new world? It makes sense. A world that has magically moving skeletons is certainly different from my own.

After the feat message disappears, I'm left in darkness again. Instead of a dull few seconds though, I feel an intense acceleration. Shooting through the darkness faster than my human body has ever travelled before, I wonder if my mind alone can vomit.

But the sensation stops, and I'm suddenly on hard ground again, in a new body. Its dark, and there's no pressure on my closed eyes. Sounds of conflict and explosions reach me, but the noise is muffled. It doesn't matter to me, because the nightmare is over. Or so I thought.

In an instant, all the pain from my encounter in America is back. The glass shards in my soles and knees, the arrow wounds in my arm and shoulder.

"Ugh....why?"

Almost pathetically, I begin to curl up, just letting the growing numbness take me.

In my body's last moment, I ease open my eyes, wanting to see what's around me. True to the words I saw in the darkness, I'm no longer on earth.

The sounds of conflict that sounded far away actually surround me. My body shutting down must have caused the muffling. More skeletons like the one that attacked me clash with humans wielding huge swords.

In the sky above them, a storm rages. There is no rain, but thick clouds obscure the sun, and flashes of lightning streak across the sky.

A young man breaks off from swinging his sword desperately through skeletons and runs in my direction, only to trip over me, landing a heavy kick in my stomach.

"Ughhhh....."

I groan at the fresh pain, vowing to hate whoever it was that did that for however much longer I have.

"Oh shit. You're alive. HEY MEDIC! I GOT A LIVE ONE!"

His concern for me is brief before he calls over help.

Hope ignites in me once again. A healer. Someone who can take me from this battlefield.

Another man runs over from another direction. I don't have the energy to move my head at all, but from the corner of my eye, I can see the arm of a scarlet uniform. Its a stark contrast from the black that the rest of the human soldiers wear.

"Ok. Kid, what are her injuries?"

"Um. Arrow wound in her shoulder. I think a stab wound on her arm... cuts on her legs, I think from a shatter spell. A lot of blood loss, and... I kicked her in the stomach."

"Tch. Useless. But what is she wearing? Never mind. Help me get her onto the stretcher."

Hands begin to work over me, easing me onto a softer and less muddy surface. I'm lifted and moved quickly away from the fight.

The face of the young man who found me pops into my vision. But it's blurred slightly. I don't have long left.

"Don't worry, we'll get you tonics in a second. And then you'll be back on the field."

What?

I try to protest, but I can't feel my limbs and the darkness overtakes me in moments.

----------------------------------------

My eyes open before I can think about whether I want them to. I'm in a pale imitation of a hospital bed with a dark green blanket over me. Its similar to the beds I used when I fought or healed in Vietnam in the '50s and 60's.

I'm exhausted, but my mind is racing, refusing to let me rest.

I push myself into a sitting position. There are a series of other beds in the room, eighteen altogether. Every single one is being used, and every occupant is asleep.

On a small stool next to me, there's a wooden cup filled with a light green liquid and a long note next to it.

I realise how thirsty I am, and wonder how long I've been asleep. I down the drink they gave me, and instantly lose any fatigue in my body. It's like the world's strongest coffee, but instead of a flavour I could never get over, it merely tasted... green.

Freshly invigorated, I slip out of the bed, noting I've been dressed in a plain grey gown that's at least two sizes too big on me.

"What... on... earth."

I speak slowly, relishing in the painless body I'm in. It occurs to me that nothing hurts, and I feel where I had been injured. The hole in my shoulder, the deep wound in my arm. There's no sign of either. No scarring, no stitches, nothing.

Briefly, I think I'm in another body, but one look at a lock of my hair confirms I'm not. Bright red curls occur rarely.

After the moment of awe is over, I wonder how long I actually have been asleep. For the injuries I've sustained to have healed so perfectly would have taken weeks.

But I don't have the answers, so I consult the note left next to my bed.

Annoyingly enough, I can't read it. The people here seem to speak English, but they certainly don't write it. With a sigh at the inconsistency of this world, I grab the note and get up, aiming to find someone who can read it.

I poke the face of the man in the bed next to me. Like me, he seems to have no injuries on him and he is dressed in the same gown. Unlike me though, he seems unable to wake up.

I shake his shoulder to no effect. None of the others in the room wakes up either.

But I'm nervous about wandering this building. I can't imagine I'm too far from the fighting. A society that still uses swords probably doesn't have access to motorised vehicles. On the other hand, though, I've probably been out of it for long enough for them to take me anywhere.

Suspicion and fear rise in my mind, but I quell it instantly. Whoever these people are, they rescued and healed me.

I push open the door at the end of the long room and almost trip over someone sitting on a bench immediately outside.

A young man, likely in his late teens is sleeping lightly, leaning against the wall. His crew-cut head is bowed into the high collar of his black trench coat. It was the staple uniform of the soldiers. Although they didn't really seem like a military. The only thing he was lacking was the modern looking black helmet and the massive sword each wielded.

He woke up, mostly due to me almost falling over his legs. But also due to the door I le slam shit behind me.

His face lit up when he saw me. And he stood up quickly.

"You're awake! Ok. Um hi... I'm Michael. Soldier 317-M. I was the one who found you and got the medic and... um... kicked you. And I just wanted to say sorry for that, so... sorry. It was a heat of the battle thing, and I didn't expect to see a living injured that close to the fighting. Especially anyone who had survived having their implants torn out."

I stare blankly at him. His voice was vaguely familiar, but without the helmet, I hadn't recognised him. Nervously, he continues while I stare.

"And you are?"

I stiffen and my eyes widen slightly.

Oh shit. I never picked a name.

My mind races for a name that would suit the time and place. But as I don't know the time or place, I draw a blank.

"Um... Ventra. I'm Ventra Cass."

He doesn't seem convinced, but I smile warmly and he blushes a little. I silently thank my luck that my current body is a real looker. Its easier to bluff my way out of an awkward or even dangerous situation if I'm hot.

"Hey Michael, could you do me a little favour?"

He seems surprised but nods earnestly.

"Sure, if I can help."

"Can you read this?"

He looks really surprised, but he takes the paper I offer and reads it out loud.

"To unknown 397-F, a stamina tonic has been provided for your consumption intended for your hasty recovery upon awakening. As soon as you are able, follow the provided directions to the quartermaster to receive your replacement clothing and weapon. He will direct you to the surgeon for replacement implants and a status evaluation. And its got the directions to the supply offices. And it's from the Lancers Second Lieutenant. High honour. Hey, are you okay? Ventra?"

He shakes my shoulder a bit to get a response, but I have far too much going on in my head to pay attention to the friendly teen.

"Um. Yeah... just need to think for a second. I don't really remember the fight, is all."

"Yeah, about that. Why were you dressed like that? I get that you, um, looked nice, but why if you had no defensive enchantments?"

Enchantments? Well, that's a word I haven't encountered since the age of knights. Is this similar?

I needed to think, but I was falling into a rut.

"We can talk as we go."

"Go where?"

I point at the note insistently.

"To the quartermaster. I don't know what the directions say."

He's taken aback completely. But he motions for me to follow and I let him lead me. He keeps talking as we go through.

"So what were you doing on the field like that?"

I don't know how to answer that in a way he might expect, so I throw caution to the wind and answer honestly.

"I don't really know. I don't know how I got there. I just... woke up injured and dying."

"So you don't remember anything?"

I see my way out of any difficult questions and grab on with both hands.

"Not really. Just my name. And... Yeah, that's it. Just my name."

"Huh. Well whatever caused it must have been a high level. Especially since you're a high level too. I couldn't even read your status. Let alone surviving without any armour and without a weapon? Damn. What level are you actually?"

I stop, completely unsure of how to answer. And even more unsure of what he means.

"What do you mean my level?"

He sees that I stopped and looks back with a frown.

"For Alo's sake. You really don't remember anything, do you?"

Disregarding whatever or whoever Alo was, I shake my head sadly.

"Go like this."

He makes an 'x' motion over his heart. His eyes seem to then focus on something in front of him I can't see, then he makes a long diagonal sweep and focuses on me again.

Completely puzzled, I copy him. As soon as I've made the 'x' over my heart, a transparent blue square appears in front of my eyes. White text and borders slowly fade into sight. The entire square fits inside my vision so that I can look around and focus on a certain area without moving my head. When I do move my head though, the square follows it.

"Woah."

"Damn. You must have really gone through the wringer there. I wonder what could have done that to you."

I ignore the comment made and focus on the words.

Name:

Ventra Cass (The Cause) Hp: 30/30 (6.1%) Species:

Human (Immortal) Mp: 930/930 (6.1%) Level:

0 (0%) Class:

(none) Body: 3 Mind: 93 (+) Soul: 610 (+) Perks:

(none) Skills:

(none) Spells:

(none)

I read through the information I'm given. Not a lot of it makes sense.

"What is all this?"

Michael sighs, it finally dawning on him how little I know.

"So the name and species parts should be obvious. If there's something in the brackets after your name, that's your title. And if you have something in brackets after your species, that's a modifier of sorts."

"Ok. So my name was right. And I'm... just a human."

Michael whistled, surprised.

"Pure human? That's rare. Most of us are part something. I'm part wood-elf. It's not a big part really. My great, great... something was a wood elf. So the blood is diluted, but I still get a small boost to my mana."

"About that. What is mana? And what does it mean by health."

"Well, first of all, your health is a measure of the damage you can take before you die. The mana is a measure of magic energy your body has. Again, it's how much you can use. But if you run out of mana, you just have some pretty savage debuffs."

"Ok..."

I was still looking at my health and mana values. My health seemed far too low. But my mana was almost thirty times as high. Michael went on, stopping me from dwelling on the values for too long.

"Your class is a... um... I don't really know how to explain what one is. You get to choose one as soon as one of your stats goes over twenty five. You can unlock access to more depending on your stats, perks and what you have or where you are. Someone with a military title can even give you a class. Oh, and your own title can give you access to new ones too. But being given one? That's how most people here became mercenaries."

"So what does a class do?"

"Oh yeah! A class grants skills and spells to help you with whatever the class is aimed for. As a mercenary, I have some combat skills, a couple spells that buff me and one that can heal myself in an emergency. What's your class by the way?"

Shit.

There's no way out of it. I don't know what to say to him so I just go with the truth.

"I don't have a class."

"Oh? That's odd. But I guess at your level you have the classless perk?"

"Um..."

I pretend to look through my status, wishing we were almost at the quartermaster's office. Something answered my wishes.

"Ah! We're here. I'll tell you more about the stats and stuff on the way to the surgeon."

Completely forgetting the question and my lack of an answer, Michael turns to look at me and gives a reassuring smile.

"Don't worry about QM Dean. He's a right bastard but he's usually not too bad on the higher levels. Especially ones who um..."

He coughed to cover up the comment he was about to make and pushed open the doors.

To contrast the light green corridors we had been traversing, the warehouse we had just entered was all silver. The ceiling rose far above me, several stories high. Crates stacked up against every wall, most with the same text I couldn't understand.

There are so few people in this titanic room that I wonder about its specific purpose.

Then I wonder how it's so bright.

"Hey, Michael. Where's the light coming from?"

Unlike the corridors that had overhead lights behind a clear barrier, the silver room had no clear source of light.

"Um. I'm not sure. The entire base is powered by various mana crystals. And I know they light up the rooms and stuff, but I don't actually know in here. Maybe QM Dean has a spell. He's a pretty high level merchant."

He starts to walk towards the centre of the room, where another pile of crates sits. It appears small, but as we walk over in nervous silence, it gets bigger and bigger until what I thought would be up to my waist towers over me.

Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.

I stare in awe at the storey tall crates, appearing larger than storage containers.

Michael starts to laugh and attempts to stifle it when I look over at him in confusion.

"I forgot about the spells here. It's a mix of illusion and transmutation magic. It's a weird loophole, but it lets us store way more than we should be able to in any room. Come on, the entrance is this way."

I'm fairly well versed in the classes of magic, at least in the way the earthen magicians knew of it. My experiences later in the technological age of the late 1900s told me otherwise.

Michael leads me around the corner of the nearest container and into another which is missing its end panel. The interior is still somehow lit up despite no obvious source.

At the far end of the container we've entered, which inexplicably seems even bigger inside, is a large man sitting at a simple wooden desk, scrawling on some paper with a quill. When I say large, I mean large. Even from the distance, I can still tell he far surpasses six feet. He doesn't seem overly fat, but I do notice a pot-belly. He's bald too. I'm about to ask Michael about him, but a slight nudge and a subtle shake discourages me. I'm suddenly wary of this large man.

He looks up at the sound of us approaching and huffs loudly. He goes back to his scratchy writing and makes us wait a minute before putting his quill into the ink well and taking off a small pair of spectacles.

"Well?"

His voice is powerful, it stuns me. Luckily, Michael doesn't seem affected and answers for me.

"This is unknown 397-f. She's in need of a complete resupply."

He looks me over with scorning eyes. I remain frozen, resisting the impulse to cross my arms over my chest.

"So what's the situation? I have the clothes you were found in. Any enchantments on them were long gone. They're pretty much a lost cause."

Michael keeps up his useful streak and answers again.

"Likely an amnesia case. Something high level knocked her, tore her implants, likely presumed her dead."

The stony gaze softens significantly and he nods gently.

"Tough break. I'll give you what you need though. To survive an implant tear, you must have some stat that's reached the hundreds."

Using his finger, he draws a small circle over one end of his desk and whips it across to the other end in one smooth motion. The papers and writing equipment glow blue then disappear.

In their place, a set of folded dark green cloth clothes, a black trench coat, the grey helmet, and a pair of boots and gloves appear.

Dean stands, towering over me and motions to the clothes piece by piece, explaining them.

"Everything you wear has self-cleaning enchantments. The scrubs have heat regulation, the boots a weight reducer, the gloves a physical strength multiplier, and the helmet works with your implants."

He hands me the folded bundle of green and leans in.

"The underwear you came in with was repaired and is in the scrubs. They're brighter and better made than any I've seen before. Where did you get them?"

I stare open-mouthed at the huge man who apparently has not only an interest but also a deep knowledge of feminine fashion.

"Uh... I don't know."

He seems disappointed but understands how I wouldn't know, given my totally real amnesia.

But regardless of his disappointment, his goodwill is not stretched, and he indicates a section of container wall next to him. It swings open like a door at his motion.

"Change in there. The clothes should fit you fine. Oh, and your underwear has the same cleaning and comfort enchantments as the rest."

He puts the boots on top of the pile I held in my arms and gently pushes me towards the well lit changing room. There's a shelf, a bench and a mirror that imitate the changing rooms of earth so well I wonder if I've somehow found my way back.

But the door shuts behind me and I slowly change into my mercenary gear.

I take a moment to wonder why I haven't even considered fighting the flow. I could easily tell someone that I'm not from this world. They might not believe me, but I would still probably be taken away from this place.

Then I realise that I've felt something the entire time since I woke up in the base. I'm excited to see what might happen next. This isn't the way I have been excited when travelling, or excited to see where my next life will be. I'm excited about everything. I was growing bored of earth. I had seen everything that many had said it was worth seeing.

But here? I was nothing. I knew nothing. A new world to see and explore. Somewhere I might not have to die so often.

I leave the changing room in the scrubs that do fit far better than I would have expected. The bra I had on when I came to this world was a fancy one. It looked nice, but wasn't the most comfortable. Whatever has been done to them though changed everything. My chest is now perfectly supported and looks great. An immediate mood improver.

I silently hand the folded hospital gown to the quartermaster and he flicks his wrist, making it disappear instantly.

"Does everything feel okay?"

I stretch slightly. The cloth is slightly stretchy but warm and comfortable.

"No complaints."

He nods, satisfied and hands me the long coat.

"I recommend you wear this at all times. We may be safe from the dead fuckers in here, but you never know when another merc wants to surprise you."

I nod in fake agreement and shoulder it on. It's heavy, but if it can keep me alive against a sword or arrow, I have no complaints. I put on the gloves too. They're made of thin but tough leather, and as black as the coat.

I flex my fingers, expecting to feel the supposed strength multiplier, but nothing feels out of the ordinary.

Dean chuckles as he notices my mild surprise.

"The enchantment only kicks in when it needs to. Speaking of, what's your highest stat?"

I pause and look over to Michael for assistance.

"You saw that you have body, mind and soul? Which one has the highest number after it?"

"Soul."

I remembered my insanely high soul value compared to my body one.

Dean seems surprised to hear that. I guess that most soldiers or mercenaries would have a better body than mind or soul.

"Soul huh? Well, if you're classless I imagine you would need to compensate somehow. No problem though! I don't get to hand these out very often."

He's about to touch his desk again when I interrupt him.

"Wait. How did you know I was classless?"

Without hesitation, he indicates towards Michael.

"This young man mentioned it while you were changing. I must admit, your circumstances seem very strange. But we can't keep track of the thousands we keep here. As long as you fight the good fight, we can't turn away the help."

I nod idly. I'm not sure how to feel about Michael talking about me behind my back. Mostly because I'm not sure whether stuff like classes and perks is supposed to be private. Either way, I've made a statement, unintentionally or otherwise.

At least Michael has the decency to look embarrassed.

Dean clears his throat loudly, noticing the awkward tension I raised.

"A-hem. Well. As I was saying, people who wield these are rare."

He reached to his desk, and instead of drawing a symbol on the bare wood, he puts his hand flat on the surface, twists it, then pushes into the wood as if it were a liquid.

He pulls out a huge scabbard from the desk, the large swords they all wield contained within.

"This is a claymore blessed by Senca. Your soul stat feeds directly into its destructive power."

"Oh."

Is all I manage to say when I take it from him. After a moment of straining to keep it up, I suddenly find it weighs very little.

Michael helps me strap the scabbard to my back. The trench coat has several useful slots that allow the straps to pass through and be secured tightly to my body.

Despite how heavy the sword felt in my arms, I barely notice it on my back.

Looking over my shoulder, I can't even see it.

"What? Where...?"

Dean and Michael both laugh at my confusion. Thankfully though, Dean explains without prompting.

"The scabbard itself has several enchantments. When worn, it's completely weightless and hides itself, and whatever it contains. You can't tell, but both this soldier and I are wearing one."

He reached over his own shoulder and seemingly grasps thin air. Then he pulls, and a handle appears in is hand. He draws the huge sword halfway out and pushes it back. As soon as it's solidly in the scabbard, it appears to become invisible again.

"Woah."

He beams at me, clearly starved of the opportunity to show off.

"Cool right? Well, give it a try."

He hands me three small beads. Each shines like a pearl.

"Throw these on the ground outside the stack. They make weaker versions of the skeletal foot soldiers. Try out the power. Tell me how it goes."

I nod and walk out into the shiny space of the warehouse.

I idly wonder again why I'm doing what I'm doing. The only answer I can come up with is that I'm having fun. I'm being treated like a warrior, which is something I rarely got. And though my understanding of stats and what they mean is very limited, I'm sure having a high soul stat means the sword will be far stronger than I can imagine.

I notice Michael and Dean have followed me out.

I take a deep breath and draw the claymore with my right hand, holding the beads in my left.

Despite the ridiculous size, the sword seems to weigh nothing, and as my grip on it tightens, I can almost feel it vibrating with power. I've wielded several swords before, so I begin in a fencers pose with the sword straight upwards.

With my other hand, I gently toss the beads on the ground several meters ahead of me.

When each hits the ground, it shatters and a white mist explodes from them. The mist condenses into white bones and three skeletons are whisked into existence.

I've fought enemies before. I've faced down armies with a handful at my back. I may be out of practice, but this is a good refresher.

The skeletons start towards me, their motions uncertain and jerky.

In a flash, I've pushed the point of my sword straight through the chest of the nearest skeleton. Its bones shatter and it falls apart instantly.

I return to my stance and wait for the next. Instead, both remaining skeletons charge me. I panic a little, unsure of how to manage them, but remember I'm wielding a blade significantly larger than my preferred rapier.

With a single swing, I shear both enemies in two. A thin gold arc follows the sword and is launched away into the wall as I finish my swing. It doesn't stop, or even slow, and slams into the far wall, shattering several of the stacked crates.

Pieces of metal and cloth rain down from the carnage and my face turns white in both shock and fear.

Guilty, I turn to see the reactions of my observers. Michael is in awe, but Dean has a much worse expression. He seems angry. Really angry.

"I... uh... sorry. I didn't mean to do that."

Michael opens and closes his mouth several times, but no words come out.

Dean finally speaks, and despite his anger, he speaks softly and slowly. There's a definite edge to it though.

"Why didn't you tell me you were over 100 soul?"

Helplessly, I shear the sword and answer as best I could.

"I didn't know. I didn't think it was that important."

Dean sighs and wipes his face with both hands.

"Come on. You need a replacement. You... You could have gotten yourself hurt."

We go back to his desk and before I even say anything, he removes the sword from my scabbard and drops it into his desk. The woo still appears Luke a liquid and the sword falls with almost no disturbance.

Instead of pulling another one from the same place, he pushes a panel on the wall and the entire wall that was behind his desk rises.

Behind is a more stereotypical armoury. He strides in confidently and I follow, utterly puzzled at what is happening.

The entire armoury is filled with claymore hanging in stands. There must be hundreds of them in the room, and every single one looked the same to me.

Dean sees some difference though and stops by a particular rack. When I catch up, he turns to me and puts his hand on my shoulder.

"What's your soul stat? And be honest with me. Please. Especially since you've forgotten all your training, you need the right sword."

He notices my glance back at the door Michael stands behind, and my reluctance to say anything and leans in closer.

"The soldier who came with you is outside. He can't hear you. I am bound by my code to keep secrets. I couldn't tell anyone, even if I wanted to."

In my mind, my opinion of the large man increased considerably. Michael was right about him being nice despite appearances.

"610."

"By the power of Senca..."

Dean takes a step back and looks at me in awe.

"And... Your other stats?"

I squirm, not sure how to explain why my body stat pales I comparison.

"My mind is 93. And body... only 3."

Concern rocks over his face.

"That build makes no sense. You're classless, but you have no strength to make up for it. A high magic capability, but no spells. And your soul... I don't know."

"Neither do I. Whatever I was doing on the battlefield, all I can do now is fight. Please, give me a sword."

I play into the amnesia bit and throw fake passion into my voice. Dean takes the bit and looks at me with pity. In his eyes, I'm an anomaly. A curiously strong yet weak one.

Almost sadly, he reaches for the sword on the end of the rack. He hands it to me hilt first, and when I hold the wrapped leather grip, a shock runs through my body. I'm frozen for a second as a feeling of... rightness washes over me.

"I believe that past a certain point, there is one singular weapon destined to be wielded by each person. And I believe this sword is meant to be used by you. Those idiots probably gave you a mana sword in initiation. Probably why you got so messed up."

There doesn't seem to be anything extraordinary about the sword. Nothing that would help me distinguish it from any other.

"That sword has a level 10 blessing of Senca. And a few other things. At that point, it counts as a legendary sword. And it's yours. Be careful with it though. It is dangerous to use without any expertise in swordplay. I can tell you have some, but it won't be enough. Train. Train as hard as you can. Or you might hurt someone."

I carefully sheathe the sword and breath easily once I can no longer feel its weight on my back.

"Thankyou quartermaster Dean. I won't forget what you have given me."

He chuckles and gives me a sly smile.

"My dear, you will repay us well with that sword. Do not forget, you will fight until you need fight no more."

His gaze has hardened, so I reciprocate and nod, looking as serious as I dare.

Seemingly satisfied, he starts to leave the room and I follow.

"I can't let you test that in here. You would break far more than some scrap chests."

I don't answer. His remark about fighting weighs on me. With all the talk about being a mercenary, I had no doubt I would end up on the battlefield again.

I would have plenty of chances to test my blade soon enough.

I've decided. From this moment onwards, I'm a mercenary.