Rayne smiled at her Uncle and began to help John towards him.

“Uncle, this is John; he was attacked by a Slueth Beast in the Everdale. I found him unconscious under a tree this morning. I applied new bandages and a poultice of shock flower petals and dilly-burg root.”

The shorter man approached John and squatted before him, inspecting the bandage. He looked to be in his early forties and wore clothing similar to Rayne, a long-sleeved blue shirt, dark leather pants, and cuffed boots. He had a narrow face with bright green eyes. His brown hair draped down to his shoulders loosely. Standing, he said, “Those would work well to numb any persistent pain, and nice wrap work, kid.” He held his hand up, and Rayne slapped it. Turning back to John, the older man smiled.

“I’d love to hear your story..” He patted John’s shoulder. “I’m Bugsy; it's nice to meet you. What do you say we go inside and patch you up, eh?”

“That’d be great, sir; Rayne spoke highly of your skills as a healer; I’m thankful for any help you can give.” John faltered slightly and continued, “But, um, you should know I don't have any money to pay you.”

Bugsy laughed and waved him off as he walked inside the house. Rayne followed, helping John as he limped slowly towards the door. Once inside, she led him through a sitting room containing several plush couches; books littered every surface in the room—a castiron fireplace smoldered with low subdued flames in the corner. The flickering fire cast an amber glow across the room. The subtle yet pleasant smell of smoke mixed in the air with a rich fragrance that reminded John of honey. Rayne tugged at his arm, realizing he had stopped walking to admire the room and take in the smell; he muttered an apology and continued toward where Bugsy was waiting for them.

“Alright, let's have you sit on my exam table, and ill take off your bandages,” Bugsy said as he led John into the room. With the help of Rayne, they got John into a comfortable sitting position. The exam table was just a padded bench with a white sheet draped over it. Compared to the sitting room, the medical room was tidy and organized. He observed the rather mundane decor, several shelves held bottles of strange goop and dried herbs. The drying rack in the upper left corner of the room was crammed full of herbs, roots, and what looked to him like peels of fruit skin. A cauldron-like mortar sat recessed into a sizeable, sturdy-looking table; the large pestle was round and connected to a long rod leaning against a nearby wall.

“That is the most aggressive mortar and pestle I've ever seen,” John said, grinning at the weapon-like pestle.

“Ha, it was my fathers; he had it set into that table when the village was built. Now let me know if you feel any pain while I remove these bandages.”

John nodded, “Yes, sir.”

“You don't need to call me sir; Im just Bugsy or Uncle Bugsy, ya hear?”

“Got it, aye fuck.”

John recoiled as Bugsy pulled away the last layer of his bandages. The poultice fell away, taking some clotted blood with it as it dropped to the floor. Fresh blood began to run down the gashes and drip to the floor. Rayne turned green, and Bugsy’s eyes widened as he said, “Damn cat got you pretty good, eh?”

Bugsy stood, pulling John's leg up to lie on the bench. Suddenly Bugsy’s eyes began to glow a brilliant green. He looked over John’s wounds; he stepped back and looked over the rest of John’s body. The healers eyes stopped once at his stomach and then again at his forehead. Each time the healer stopped his inspection, one of his eyebrows quirked, and a knot began to form in John’s throat.

Oh, shit, he thought. This guy knows something is off with me. Maybe he won’t say anything about it. No, of course, he will. Do I lie? No, I can’t keep lying. If he asks, I’ll have to trust him and Rayne. For better or worse, I’m going all in.

Nodding to himself, Bugsy stepped forward and held his hands just over John’s still bleeding leg. The same brilliant green radiance washed out from the healer's hands and over John's leg. Spectral leaves and yellow dancing motes floated out of the light to fill the room. The smell of spring flowers assaulted John, he began to smile, but that was when the pain hit.

He gasped; as his skin stretched and pulled back over the exposed bone of his ankle. Grinding his teeth to keep from yelling, a cry slipped through and he screwed his eyes shut. John did not want Bugsy or Rayne to see how much this hurt him. It burned as if someone were digging through his flesh with a hot blade; beads of sweat formed all over his body, and he held back tears. The feeling soon dissipated as the warmth of the light engulfed him. When he opened his eyes, the pain was gone. He looked down at his leg; three jagged pink lines where the wound had been neatly mended starkly contrasted against his pale skin.

“Whew!” Bugsy exclaimed, stepping back and wiping his brow with a sleeve. “It’s been a while since I've last healed a wound like that. I must be getting rusty.”

“Man, that hurt like hell you could've at least warned me first,” John complained, rubbing his calf.

“Speaking of that, even toddlers know that healing magic is painful. You don't have a mana core, and a curse that I've never seen an equal to binds you. So that begs the question, John, Who are you?”

“So he cursed me,” John mumbled. He looked up at Bugsy and then Rayne. “I want to know more about the curse. Then ill tell you everything. Can I trust you with my secret?”

Bugsy nodded and turned from the room, calling back. “I suspect this will be a rather long chat; let’s sit somewhere comfortable, and I’ll put on a pot of coffee.”

John followed him into the sitting room, where he quickly picked up the multitude of books from the couches and stacked them neatly onto a large desk at the farm side of the room. Rayne walked in with a glass contraption filled with water, and she set it on the fireplace. She scooped coffee grounds from a tin and poured them into the glass. Steam began to rise from the water, slowly saturating the ground beans as John sat. By the time Bugsy had cleared the rest of the furniture, the first drops of coffee had fallen into an empty portion of the glass contraption.. John stared quite amused until Bugsy and Rayned sat across from him. With a look of mild concern, Bugsy spoke.

“As I said, the curse is something I have never seen before. Nor have I ever seen any affliction of its complexity. However, there are some discernable features. The first is that it is affecting your soul. I don't think it's causing harm, but rather that there is a prerequisite that must be met before the curse mark activates. What it will do when it activates? Well, your guess is as good as mine. I heard you mumble something about he cursed me. Do you know who did this to you?”

“Yes,” John said dryly, looking at his feet. “A giant being in an onyx temple who called himself Kelldar. Well, I’m only assuming it was him. The last thing I remember before waking up in this world was him grabbing my head, followed by torture.”

He looked up to see Bugsy and Rayne looking at him intensely. Rayne was the first to speak.

“John, are you saying you weren’t born on Herjalt?”

“If, Herjalt is the name of this planet, then no. My world is called Earth; it is home to nearly eight billion humans. It is probably a lot like this world before what you called the initialization.” He said, looking at Rayne. “Earth doesn’t have magic or classes, but its technology is powerful; we have built rocket ships like this one, only at a smaller scale.” John gestured upward with his hand trying to indicate the space cruiser the village was built in.

Bugsy ran a hand through his shaggy brown hair and sighed. “John, Herjalt is considered a failed world. The system no longer issues quests here because we were deemed a lost cause after the fifth great war. I will explain the wars and the fall of our world from the systems graces later but you should know if you came here in hopes of questing for power. You have come to the wrong planet.”

John held up a hand, “I didn't come here of my own free will. I don't have access to this system. No classes, no levels, and certainly no quests.”

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“That's impossible,” Rayne said, waving her hands in the universal no-way gesture. “Everyone over the age of ten has it. Even the Zudrians couldn't find a way to block the influence of the system.”

“That may not be entirely true,” Bugsy said, eyes glowing and focused on his forehead. “We know that the system is a part of the soul, and this circle of black runes seems to surround the entirety of your soul. So, in theory, if the system can't access your soul because it’s blocked by some foreign means.” He trailed off deep in thought; looking up, he continued. “That would make sense.”

Rayne cut in, “So what you're saying is if we get rid of his curse, he will be able to access the system?”

“Whoa, slow down. I was warned against trying to obtain this system of yours. Sure, it sounds incredible, but the guy who did this to me claimed to be a god, and I'm inclined to believe him. Let’s take a moment to think about what happens if he finds out I lifted this curse and accessed what he strictly forbade me from.” John looked at the duo across from him, expecting them to read into what he was saying, but they both stared back with looks of incomprehension. John rolled his eyes and continued, “I think if he sent me here, he likely has the means to come and kill me. And, to be completely honest with the two of you, I’m not keen on dying again.”

Simultaneously Bugsy and Rayne asked, “Again?”

“Yeah… Wouldn’t be the first time this week.” John looked at his feet. He quickly regaled them of his first death, leading to meaningless questions about automobiles and the temple world. Exasperated, he spoke over the enthusiastic duo, “Look. My point is that if the curse isn't harming me currently, and I can live an average life here. That’s what I will do; I don't need magic to be happy; I get a thrill just from seeing others use it. Maybe I will change my mind someday, but right now, I’m in a new place with a second chance at life. I’d love to hear more about the history of this world.

Rayne looked at him sadly, but before she could speak, Bugsy said, “I understand. I will gladly find you a job here in Valorwood, and you're welcome to stay here until you get your feet under you.” He stood up and grabbed the coffee maker from the fireplace. As he poured the dark liquid into cups, he said. “Oh, and to be safe, I would ask the two of you to keep everything that has just been discussed a secret between us. There is no telling how some of the old curmudgeons would take to this news. He brought the cups back to the couches handing one to John and Rayne, and then took his seat.

“Thanks,” John said, looking into the cup. “I’ll keep my mouth shut, don’t worry, I wouldn’t have told you, but I saw when you recognized that something was off with me.”

“Me too.” Rayne Chimed in. “Your secret is safe with me, John.”

“Well.” John smiled and took a sip of the warm coffee. It was bold and dark; he smiled. “Now that we’ve gotten through the mess, that is me. Someone tell me more about this world.”

Bugsy laughed and replied. “I believe I can give you the long and short of it.” He wiggled down into the couch, getting comfortable. He pulled a bottle of syrup from a pocket and poured it into his coffee; swishing it around the mug, he took a long swig and sighed happily. “So, first, the migration. When the system claims worlds, it generally takes the largest world and selects fifteen million people from the other claimed worlds. It will transport them all to the selected world and the integration will be complete. This process doesn't happen immediately. The system will pit ten to fifteen of the most powerful people on each planet against one another prior to transport. My father told me that when Veladria, my people's home world was initialized they received a message that the arbiter contest had begun. The fifteen people that had been chosen to take part in this contest were truly powerful people, and a bloody fight followed. The one last standing gained the title of arbiter. From Veladria, the winner was a man named Leaf Ginnarel. No one knows for sure, but it was rumored that Leaf was given an option of contests for the citizens from Veladria. The following system message was titled: “The Contest of Blood.” It’s detail revealed only fifteen million people would go to the system-designated world. The contest rules were simple, kill your fellow people; those with the most kills would be chosen. The days following the message remained quiet; only three names appeared on the new world ladder. Then a second message came; as a punishment for not capitulating to the system's will, the fifteen million slots turned to thirteen million. With threats of the number further dropping madness fell upon Veladria. People killed their neighbors, wives, and brothers. The bloodshed was so great that there is little written about it. My people suffered the ghosts of their past many years after the migration. My father held one of the lowest spots on the ladder; he often awoke in the night screaming and begging for mercy. Many of the other races have similarly bloody histories surrounding the pre-migration era. For eight months, the people of migrant worlds carved bloody swathes through their own people. Then on the day that the contest clock hit zero, thirteen million people disappeared from Veladria, and my people's home was destroyed. The remaining people, cities, beasts, and land,were all consumed by the system for resources and fuel. The worlds that are destroyed get broken down into parts. The system uses the land to build contests and dungeons, while the organic matter is turned into monsters that the system feeds into its integrated worlds.”

He lifted his cup to take a drink, and John took the opportunity to ask a question. “So if the migrant worlds were fighting and killing each other for eight months, what were the Zudrians doing here in all that time?”

Bugsy laughed morosely. “Nothing; the Zudrians took the system as an affront to their gods and intelligence. They avoided using it, shunning its quests and leaving the attribute and skill points gained from levels unspent. When the migrant races arrived, they were labeled heretics for using the system. The Zudrian people, from a physical standpoint, were fragile; they relied heavily on their technology. No one knows if they started working on their soldiers before the migrants arrived or after they realized how weak they were comparatively.”

“Hold on,” John said, jumping in. “If they were so technologically advanced, why would it matter if they were physically weak? Their advanced weaponry should have made up for that.”

“You would think so,” Bugsy replied. “But the system partially made up for the other races' lack of weaponry. The dwarves were granted quests to build great war machines rivaling the Zudrians' land devices. The Shamanic Tribe of Wildkin’s ritual magic combined with the elemental spells of the Sprites could take on the fearsome flying machines. But as I began to say before, the Zudrians had created their own sub-race of soldiers. We don't know whether they were around before the migration or if they were created in haste.”

Bugsy looked John squarely in the eyes and said. “During the battle of The Black Hall, the Grimlocks appeared.”

“As my father told it, seven of them walked from the gates of the Black Hall and single-handedly drove back the armies of twelve races. The Kashmir, a race of cat people, and the Joraga, a race of feathered naga, were wiped from the face of Herjalt that day; the bones of the dead still litter the streets of the Black city.

He took another sip of his coffee, and Rayne got up, saying, “I'm going to get us some dinner from the tavern.” Bugsy smiled at her as she walked out the door. He looked back to John, who was also watching her leave. His eyebrow raised and he asked, “John, do you like what you see?”

Mid-swallow, John coughed and spluttered. Trying to gain his faculties, he slapped his chest as he choked on the coffee. Taking a long wheezing breath, he hoarsely replied, “I- I’m sorry, sir; Rayne is stunning, though, and she has helped me so much. I… was just thinking of how I could repay her kindness.”

Bugsy laughed at John’s flustered state and asked, “How old are you, John? What is the lifespan of humans? That is what you called your race if I am assuming correctly.”

“I’m twenty-four. The average human lives to be seventy or eighty years old; the oldest of us live to be one hundred and maybe a little further past that. Why do you ask?”

“I ask because we are Valorwood elves, John. We live up to and often far past a thousand years. I am nearly five hundred years old.”

“What?” John blurted out. “You look like you're in your forties at the most. Wait, you're Raynes's uncle, and you’re five hundred.” John paused and adopted a faraway look. Refocusing after a moment, he looked at Bugsy. “My math isn’t math-ing right; just rip off the band-aid. How old is Rayne?”

With a chuckle and warm smile, Bugsy replied, “ She will have her seventy-eighth birthday next week.”

John’s face went white, and Bugsy laughed harder. “Don’t let her catch you making that face about her age; she will string you up by your toes.” Bugsy stood, mug in hand. “Come, let's enjoy the evening air as we continue our discussion.”

John stood and followed Bugsy out the door. The light flooding in from the tear in the ship's hull had faded to an orange glow. Noticing that a heavy wooden battlement also hung in front of the hole, he watched as several torches flared to life as the guards used them to light long tubs of oil along the structure. Braziers started to come to life around the town casting the village in the same golden light he had observed earlier in the day.

I wonder why they don't just use the braziers on the guard stations. I bet it’s got something to do with keeping unwanted visitors away during the night.

Bugsy sat on an extended bench outside the door, kicking his leg over a knee. “So,” He said as John sat beside him and leaned against the wall. “The Grimlocks. They were mighty warriors, and little is known about them to this day. All we know for sure is that they were half Zudrian, half machine. The war of extinction came first, and it is the only named war. The Zudrians fought constant battles against many of the races that migrated here; little by little, they were worn down, and a Grimlock fell in each ensuing struggle. The fifth great war began, and there were three left. The name is misleading; honestly, it was a battle that lasted only one day, but it was the day the Zudrian people died. Their Grimlocks fought and killed swathes of us, but suddenly they vanished. The fire giants walked through the last Zudiran city, and it burned.”

“Us?” John asked.

“Yes, I was there. The fifth great war was four hundred and twelve years ago. I was still a boy by our standards, but I was a fool. The images of that day are still burned into my memory. Now, you would think the fighting would stop, but you would be wrong. Warlords arose and claimed great swathes of land, and more battles were fought over claims to treasures and dungeons. Then two hundred years ago, the system sent a message to everyone on Herjalt, the world we fought to call home had been classified as a failed world. We are waiting for the reallocation. Whatever that means.”

Just as bugsy began to lift his mug to finish off his coffee a bell began to toll. Bugsy and John both looked toward the noise. One of the men guarding the large hole frantically swung his hammer at a large bronze bell. The rings echoed eerily off the metal walls of the cargo bay, and suddenly hell descended upon Vallorwood as the man swinging the hammer fell in a spray of blood.