7 : 224 : 13 : 48 : 02

At the crack of dawn one day, my esteemed magic mentor/landlady/guardian barges into my room, kicking the door in without a warning, as is her bad habit. There's not much use for locks in the house of a magician.

“Up and on your feet, spitsling!” granny croaks and goes to yank the curtain off the window, to allow a bit of spring light in. Or, she tries to. But I've nailed the curtain to the wall, tight as a bowstring. Most of the time, I come to my room only to sleep or do things that won't stand the light of day, so what would I need a window for? Naturally, I'd take firm measures to prevent anyone from disrupting my precious rest.

As usual, granny doesn't understand my philosophy. She looks at the arrangement for a moment in frustration and then uses wind magic to cut a clean, round hole into the wall where the window used to be. Shortly my room is full of bright morning light and cool air. I guess that's as much sleep as I'm getting today.

I sit up drowsily on the edge of the bed and rub my weary eyes.

“Granny,” I patiently tell the witch, “one of these days, you’re going to catch me at a real awkward spot, unless you learn to knock first.”

“Quit fiddling with yourself,” the old bag replies and turns to me with arms crossed. “It’s high time you started working for a living.”

“You’re pulling my leg.” I bounce up to my feet, unable to hide my awe. “You mean, I finally get to wear the suit?”

After a full year of nothing but silence and menial labor, I was already about to give up on it, but it’s finally here; the day every aspiring mutant child dreams about, day and night: the day they get to show off their wedgie to the world. After the painstaking training arc we just glossed over in one chapter, I’m going to get my first real mission as part of the A-team! My time to shine is here, the beginning of my glorious legend!

“Your own clothes will do just fine,” granny tells me. “I suggest you put some on and make haste. I want you to go see our dear leader. She has a job for you.”

“Irifan?” I repeat, to make sure I understood this right. “You mean, seriously? A job-job? For me?”

“Yes? That’s what I said?”

“I’m so on it.”

“After you fix the window!”

Later.

I make myself presentable in record time and hurry over to Castle Menneroix. I hope they put the quinjet closer to our house, because running this distance every time there’s an emergency—you're bound to ask yourself if the world is actually worth all the hassle. I also hope they give me a cool badge or something I can flash to the gatekeepers, because going into the castle with just a “hi” every time is a bit lame. No sense of drama. What if there's a lookalike? A supervillain with the ability to alter their appearance? Like that dude in Blade 3. Everybody would be dead. Whose bright idea was it to make Dracula a shapeshifter, anyway? It makes no sense! Have you ever heard of any other vampire doing that?

Never mind.

Upstairs on the high second floor of the main keep, I find Irifan in her fabulous office, lovely as ever.

Been a while since my last visit. I’ve had regrettably few opportunities to see the boss over the past year in general, busy as we’ve been with our respective efforts. Irifan did come check up on my progress a couple of times, which made me super happy and did wonders to my motivation. Each time we had her over, I tried my hardest to look as awesome as possible, while granny tried her hardest (I assume) to make me look as stupid as possible. Unfortunately, my master’s success rate was way better. Must come with the experience.

But today, there’s no one else there to sabotage me.

I can freely demonstrate all my cool points, honed to perfection over the past year. The result of my tremendous growth as a person.

Ah! The sight of Irifan’s youthful, aryan figure always gets my blood pumping. The looks aside, it’s been ages since I last smelled a woman in that magical gap between thirteen and fifty. And that doesn't sound creepy at all.

But hang on!

This is starting to sound like the only thing I care about our leader is her body!

That’s not true! I'm not that shallow! I couldn't say looks are entirely irrelevant either, but the body is only barely ten percent—fifteen percent of it. Everything about Irifan is wonderful! Her eyes, her smile, her voice, all the little gestures—Oh, that’s still the body, huh? Anyway, there are other good parts about her too, I’m sure! I just don't know them so well yet. But I'm definitely going to find out.

“Ah, there you are,” Irifan greets me with a sunny smile from behind her fabulous mahogany work desk, thankfully oblivious to the springtime unfolding inside me. “Thank you for coming! I’ve been waiting for you.”

“Hi,” I return the greeting and stop before the desk. “I’ve been coming too—I mean waiting. To see you. Yes. So, how many dragons are we talking about?”

Irifan blinks. “Pardon me?”

“That's what I'm here for, right? To kill dragons.” I clarify. Surely they wouldn't employ my vast talents for anything less. “I hope at least ten, ‘cos I’m on fire today. Not on dragonfire—internal fire. Spiritual, figurative fire. The intense will to exceed my human limits.”

“…There are no dragons, as far as I know,” Irifan replies and the look in her eyes makes it clear I won’t be doing any heroic killing of Legendary Beasts today.

Too bad, but what can you do? It's too soon for dragons. That's Episode 2. I must be humble and recognize my place. Baby steps.

“Okay. On an absolutely dazzling day like this, I’m fine with slaying bears too. So it’s going to be bear hides, yes? Ah, the RPG classic. It’s what all good townsfolk need, so why not world-saving organizations too? Got to have something to put on the floor when the days get cold and chilly. I know. I understand. Consider it done.”

I could suggest better things to warm young Ms Duchess with, but maybe that’s going too fast.

I want to build this relationship slow and steady. Rank by rank, date by date.

“Er, no.” Irifan shoots me down again.

“Not teddies,” I nod. “Should’ve known. We all love bears. They’re big and soft and exceedingly cuddlesome. I get it. For beginner adventurers, it’s going to be boar hides instead. I should manage ten, or close. If it were any faceless NPC asking, I’d have to respectfully turn them down—but hey, anything for you, my dear master and savior. Your will is my command.”

“Nnno.” Irifan’s patient, saintly smile is indeed highly endearing. “There won’t be any boar-killing for you today either.”

I shrug, now all out of ideas.

“What am I here for?”

“I’m very glad you asked.”

Having the opportunity to finally explain things properly, Irifan’s smile turns a level more heartfelt.

She gets up from her seat and takes out something from the desk drawer, and brings it over to me.

“I have here a letter that needs to be delivered,” she says and shows to me the white envelope sealed with a big blot of red wax. “If you could kindly take it to the town for me, I’d be very happy.”

“By the gods!” I stare at the immaculate white quest item, my jaw nearly dropping out of amazement. “Now that’s high level. I’m impressed. Top secret orders to take down the terrorist leader lurking in the caves of Baddistan? The identity of the mole in the White House? The truth of who really killed Kurt Cobain? Are my stats high enough for this?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Irifan says.

“Me neither. I was making it up.”

“It's a letter to my aunt in Morelieu,” she says. “To thank her for the supplies they sent us last week, as well as to answer a few other things she asked me about.”

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

“I get it.” I nod in understanding. “It’s code, right? Aunt means our undercover agent in the sinister syndicate, and supplies are the weapons they’re selling under the table to an unnamed country on the axis of evil. Did I get it right?”

You could slice the ensuing silence with a knife.

“Aunt means...my mother’s sister,” Irifan explains to me, slowly, tapping the envelope with her finger. “And supplies refer to the milk you drink in the morning, the bread you eat with your soup, and the toilet paper you...among other things.”

She hands me the letter. “Try not to lose it, okay?”

“I...”

“The address is on the envelope. The big house, along the main street. Ask for where Jannés lives, if you get lost. Anyone could tell you.”

“This is...”

“Good luck, Zero. That will be all, thank you. And do be quick! She’s expecting it today.”

I slouch downstairs and out of the keep, the letter in my fingers. In the shadow of the tall gatehouse, Lieselot stands waiting for me.

“Hey, Zero!” she yells and waves at me. “I heard you’re going to town! Master Teresina told me! I’m coming with you!”

“This isn't a holiday. This is...my mission.”

“I’ll race you! The last one there has to buy a tart!”

“My big chance...My responsibility...”

“I’ll have apple, okay! See you there!”

“It’s three miles to the town, I’m not going to race you—and there she goes...”

Without even telling me where the starting line is, Liselot takes off running across the drawbridge.

“I’ll leave you in the dust!” she pauses on the other bank of the moat to yell back. “Come on! Zero the Snail! Zero the Snail!”

“That’s cheating. And incredibly childish. And I’m—not going to lose today, you little cracklebutt!”

I stick the letter in the pocket of my cardigan and dash after her. With the rune I learned the other day, I’ll put that shrimp in her place, at last!

“Zero the Piss-ant! Boo!”

“Why, you—! Wait! Slow down! Wait!”

7 : 224 : 11 : 15 : 32

We really ran the whole way to the town, in under ten minutes. At the town gate, I admit my loss, and stop to lean on my knees, panting, my lungs burning, my thighs full of lactic acid. Oh god, I think I’m actually going to die! Fell in the line of duty, racing a middle-schooler. What a pathetic end to my legend! Someone explain to me how that girl can outrun a speed enchantment—what is she made of!?

“That’s a free apple tart for me,” Lieselot celebrates, not a bead of sweat on her brow. “I hope you’ve got the money, Zero!”

“Do you get fat?” I ask her in between ragged breaths. “You will!”

Ever since Lieselot turned thirteen in March, she’s been even more insufferable than usual. Worst of all, her budding boobs are already bigger than mine. Gods, how could you do this to me!? And I’m supposed to feed her even more calories!? Life isn't fair!

From a distance, Morelieu looks only like a bird stain on the landscape, but it’s a proper small town. Not a village, a real town. Stout brick houses built closely together, walls chalked clean white, firm roofs plated with terracotta; the streets are paved, with separate lanes for pedestrians and carts. They've all the mandatory staples of high culture. A town hall. A postal office. A bank. A market square complete with a notice board for the local's worthless troubles. There’s a bakery too, a general goods store, a barber, a tailor, a blacksmith, a tavern, a couple of pubs—the whole set. A downright metropolis. And best of all: not one wretched tourist in sight.

Of course, bakery is the only place Liselot knows or cares about.

“Look,” I tell my friend as soon as I’ve steadied my breathing, and show her the invaluable quest item. “I have here a highly classified, extremely important letter awaiting delivery. The future of our country might depend on it—and the cleanliness of our asses. So your snack time is going to have to wait until after the job’s done.”

“But I'm hungry now!” Lieselot retorts. “I've been up since five and it's lunch time!”

“Well, I got up at nine and didn't even have breakfast today. But I can rise above my carnal weakness, to do what must be done. Why can't you?”

“You promised me,” she says, her cocoa eyes full of blame.

“Promised what?” I ask as I stuff the letter back into my pocket, and don my best “dunno what the hell you’re on about”-face.

“You lost the race!”

“So? You decided that on your own. I made no promises.”

“By joining the race, you agreed to the terms!”

“Young lady, you have a wonderful future ahead of you—as a software developer. We take the letter, then you get your tart. Maybe. If I still feel like it then.”

“No way!” Lieselot refuses to compromise. “You have to honor your word, Zero. Dad says there’s nothing more important to a warrior than her honor. I won’t let you break your promise and stain your own name!”

“Why are you acting like it’s in my best interests? You came only for free lunch! That’s not honorable, it’s shameful! And Irifan’s letter is slightly more important than your stomach. People’s lives could be at stake! Your request goes in the line—very far down the line.”

The girl responds with her well-rehearsed stubborn scowl, which vividly reminds me of a donkey.

“So that dumb letter is more important to you than our friendship?” she quietly asks.

I know she’s faking it. I know it’s cheap. But her words, coupled with the hurt look, still make my flat chest sting.

“Hey. I didn’t say that. That’s low. That’s super low.”

“But that’s what you thought,” she insists. “On the inside.”

“No, I—For fuck’s sake, guilt-tripping is my trademark, you don’t get to use my weapons against me!”

“Okay then. You don’t want me to be your friend anymore. Fine. I’m just going to go back home alone and cry to my pillow.” Lieselot steps past me down the lane, the way we just came, her shoulders drooped, looking convincingly heartbroken and spiritless.

“Oh, come on!” I yell after her. “That’s so childish! I’m not falling for that!”

“I am a child,” she says back. “And so are you.”

“I’m not. I’m clearly the more mature of us.”

“Sure. And that’s why you don’t have any friends—anymore.”

“Aw, stop that!”

Despite my appeals, Lieselot’s not stopping. She heads on towards the town gate and I have no choice but to admit defeat once again.

“Hey! Lis. Come back! I—I need friends, okay? I don’t have anybody else! I’m sorry! I said I’m sorry! For fuck's sake, I hate it when you do that!”

The letter delivery is put on hold, and the first thing we do after coming to town is take a detour through Martha’s bakery.

National security, a girl’s empty stomach; a hero needs to put things into perspective. At least one of us knows her priorities.

Even if I weren’t that hungry myself, the appetizing scent of freshly baked bread and sweet rolls wafting out of the doorway makes my stomach yodel like never before, and I wordlessly thank Liselot for changing my mind. Aloud I say nothing. She doesn't need an even bigger head. Resolved to set a good example of adult behavior from here, I stride boldly into the store, and stop in my tracks right after the door.

A gobsmacking scene plays out inside.

In the back of the shop, past the display shelves loaded with delicious goods, a very seedy-looking middle-aged fellow leans over the counter, confronting Mrs Martha Aimes, the hero who runs the bakery by herself and blessed it with her name. I’ve seen the ever so slightly inflated baker enough times to recognize her, but the man is a stranger.

Mrs Aimes, who's normally all smiles, is making a dead serious face. More serious than I’ve ever seen her before.

“How much do you want?” she asks the man.

“Give me everything you’ve got in the register,” he gruffly commands and gestures at her to hurry it up.

Oh my thousand gods, what the fuck am I seeing!?

What kind of mono-testicled nutjob robs a bakery—of all places—in the middle of the day? That’s terrible! What devil led this turdhead to bring his third-world problems into my pastel-colored paradise valley? Is no corner of the universe safe from human garbage?

Well, not on my watch.

Before you can save the world, you have to sweep your own doorstep first, that’s my policy.

I exchange glances with Lieselot and nod. As expected of my best (and only) friend, she reads me perfectly. No words needed.

Then I proceed to lasso the criminal with a Chain of Light like he’s a mad cow in the prairie. I learned this trick last week, by the way. With a swift, mana-amplified yank of the chain, I reel the bandit off the counter and across the shop floor, straight into Lieselot’s merciless elbow clothesline. With a loud boom, the bastard is knocked down for the count. These low-level ruffians are no match to us. I bind the jerk's wrists, wrap him tight like a gift box for Christmas. One serving of criminal scum, ready for jail. Conflict resolved, justice served. Don’t screw with these heroes!

Mrs Aimes runs over to us.

Instead of congratulating the two us for a job well done, she stares at the unconscious man in shock, her face white as a sheet. I guess it must've looked pretty dramatic. Not everyone here is overexposed and numbed to violence in their youth.

“Good morning, ma’am,” I make an effort to soothe her. “I know it was a freaky thing to see, but no panic. The situation’s over, you’re safe. No need to thank us, good work is its own reward. We’ll just go and hand this slackjaw over to the authorities and—”

“—What have you done!?” Mrs Aimes cuts me off with a shriek and kneels beside the unconscious man. She picks him up, looking convincingly worried about his well-being, spontaneous tears washing over her face.

Lieselot and I trade deeply confused looks.

“...Er, do you know this guy?” I ask Mrs Aimes.

“It’s my husband!” she yells at us. “He was going to pay his debt to Herman and needed the money! Now you’ve—you’ve killed him!”

“…….Well. Shit.”

You wanted a cliffhanger?

Well, you got a cliffhanger.