6 : 272 : 16 : 59 : 03

I depart the very same day. After all, there's no time to waste. I travel light, with only the ABCs of personal hygiene and a change of underwear. A bit of spending cash. Passports? They don’t ask for those. Sephram will arrange me a place to stay and the rest I’ll figure out when I’m there.

We may not have a quinjet, but I’m not riding there on a pony either. Oh no, we’re better than that.

The launch platform is in our own kitchen. The whole gang’s gathered there to see me off. It’s my first real mission as a hero of justice, after all. A bit of a ceremony is a must.

“Step up into the circle, runt,” the old bag commands and I hop onto the familiar marked ring in the middle of the floor. “Like we rehearsed before, if you still remember?”

“Yeah, yeah. I remember. No sweat.”

Teleportation magic isn’t a picnic, especially over a distance this long, but thanks to my diligent training and humongous talent, I can pull it off. I think.

Master Endol came up with the formula. Granny will help me hook up with the local leyline. Her mansion stands on top of a major power vein, which is one of the reasons she set up shop here in the first place. Aligning with the natural flow of the land makes establishing a pathway through spacetime hell of a lot easier than it otherwise would be. There may be minor risks involved, such as popping out randomly where you shouldn’t, spliced to ribbons, but I’ll take my chances. Beats riding weeks and weeks across the Abserim and the canyonlands on the border of Nikéa. The war would be long done by the time I’d get there.

And that’s why it has to be me.

Not only because I’m skilled enough to open a portal, but because my high compatibility with the planetary mojo causes less friction during the transit. Well, technically, I could open the portal for somebody else too, or Master Endol could open it for somebody else, but please let me believe I have a real reason to do this.

“Godspeed, Zero,” Irifan tells me with the look of a mother sending her kid off to war. Nah, a bad comparison. I wouldn’t have the hots for my own mom. “I shall pray to the Divines for your swift and safe return.”

“Relax. I’ll be fine,” I tell her for the hundredth time.

“Be mindful of your feelings,” Master Endol instructs me, and I can almost hear Alec Guinness. Almost, if he didn’t intone it like failure were already a given. “Become the master of your passion, not its slave. Keep your mind on the mission. Protect life, at all times.”

“Yeah, whip the weak, bully the big. Trust me, I know all the rules by heart.”

“...There is no rule like that.”

“Remember our teachings,” Master Khram adds. “And mind your manners! The Nikéans aren't over-fond of their western cousins.”

“I love how you talk about mankind like we're one incestuous boxful of fruit flies.”

“You are not minding your manners now!”

“Come back soon, Zero!” Lieselot tells me. “Next time, I’ll go with you!”

“Can’t wait, ‘jellybean’,” I reply as we bump fists. “Guess the world’s not ready for your haymaker just yet.”

What would become of our ratings if we dispatched a 13-year-old to a potential war zone? Then again, I’m barely three. But hey, I'm special.

“Not all the problems in the world can be solved with fists,” Master Gunlau joins in, resting his hands on Liselot’s shoulders. And then he adds with a wink, “but there are quite many that can.”

“I shall take your wise words to heart,” I answer him with a patriotic salute.

“Why is that the only language you listen!?” Master Khram quips from the side.

“There’s not nearly enough wisdom we can pour into your thick skull, you daft bimbo!” granny yells at me from the back. “But I suppose this much will have to do. There’s a whole country and a few million people in dire need of a hand, and we have nobody else to give them. Just try and keep that boy alive. And pray, don’t ruin it all!”

“Just watch me!”

I close my eyes and detach my consciousness from its carnal frame. The next part takes a bit of concentration.

Opening mental link to the leyline: done.

Tracing the most direct energy pathway: done.

Identifying optimal exit point: done.

Locking onto coordinates. Extracting vector data for navigation. Verifying the integrity of the tunneling phenomenon…Done and done!

“Alright! Let’s rock!”

Back in my own skin again, I smack my palms together and then pull them apart to open the event horizon.

A round hole widens in midair, framed by golden rings of light, and past the glimmering decorations spreads a view to an altogether different location. Here we go. That wasn't so hard. I give one last look of farewell over my shoulder to Irifan, make an affirming, resolute nod, face forward again, and stride through the Gate of Light.

Oh, I’m getting excited!

My first real, official hero job and the stakes couldn’t be any higher.

Gotta do everybody proud.

6 : 272 : 17 : 02 : 51

So the first thing I do is go to a bar.

I should probably take a minute to describe the city for you, because you won’t believe how big and exotic it is—completely unlike any other place I’ve seen before—but that can wait. After warping over three thousand kilometers, I’m thirsty. I mean, I should gather information. Check out the vibes. Get a feel of the locals. You know, the usual spy stuff.

Fortunately, Nikéa has a broad selection to choose from. Clearly the locals know a thing or two about entertainment. There are pubs, bistros, and tea houses at virtually every corner. And brothels. And places that look a lot like strip clubs, featuring stage shows where women throw off their clothes and dance for money. Yes, I think they actually are strip clubs. I got a pamphlet too. The performers are undoubtedly all over eighteen and willingly employed.

The narrow streets are chock full of people, colorful folks from every corner of the continent, though it’s already getting dark. It was early evening when I left home, but already night when I got here. Time zones, funny how they work.

I pick a place that looks suitably tactful. A nice basement club, a bit on the noisy side, but that only makes it easier to blend in.

A little easier. The local average height is near dwarf-tier, and my looks sort of stand out. I’m only 172 centimeters, but still taller than even most men I see. So this is how Master Endol sees the world.

I put on shades to cover my eyes, keep my ears among the hair, and pull a baggy cap on my head. There. A perfect disguise.

I pass downstairs into a wide lounge, lit with red lanterns that cast their blood-stirring filter over the interior. Very atmospheric. Here and there are set exquisite chairs and divans, round tables in between. On the left is a curving steel stairway up to a more private mezzanine. Because of the dim lighting and the pipe smoke hanging in the air, you can’t see people’s faces too clearly, which gives you a bit of privacy even while surrounded by strangers. A minstrel lazily fingers a guqin in the background.

Now this is what I’m talking about.

This niterie has class. The ideal hangout for cultured souls of taste, nothing like those sweaty country pubs they have in Morelieu, crawling with desperate, borderline illiterate farmhands and the stench of testosterone. I’m so glad I came.

Opposite the entryway, straight ahead, stretches a long counter, behind which a thick male bartender in a purple suit is wiping glasses. Behind him rises a dizzying wall of shelves, on which thousands of glasses and colorful bottles are cleanly lined up. I go take a seat at the counter and hear another customer order a vodka.

“Hey, what’s vodka?” I ask the bartender.

The fellow turns to me with a mix of pity and amusement in his slanted, black eyes. Without a word, he takes out a tiny glass and pours it full of colorless liquid that looks a lot like plain tap water. Is he messing with me? He then sets the glass in front of me and says,

“This, my lady, is vodka.”

The strong chemical smell rising from the glass slams my nostrils shut and tells me it’s not water.

“In one go,” the bartender advises me with an illustrative gesture, before turning to serve the next person.

I pick up the glass.

This seems like a bad idea. But...

“Oh well.”

Life’s full of learning experiences.

It can’t be too lethal, if they’re selling it to people. I do as told and down the glass in one take.

“——Ghnhhhaaaoowww….!”

For a moment, I can’t even breathe.

The shit burns in my throat as it goes down, while fumes come back up. I squint my eyes, tears welling up in them, and cough feebly, hoping for the biting assault on my senses to subside. It's almost like being run over by a horse! And I know how that feels.

Slowly, the awful feeling passes. Gods, I thought I was dead!

“…Damn, the hell was that!?” I exclaim as I get my voice out again.

“Well? Did you like it?” the bartender comes back to ask me with a mischievous grin.

“That’s—definitely not fit for human consumption!” I say.

The man laughs and pours me another glass.

About eight shots later, I inform the bartender I’ve changed my opinion on vodka. It still tastes like shit, but it’s the kind of shit I think I can bring myself to appreciate. I suppose it’s an acquired taste. Kids wouldn’t get it.

At fourteen shots, I judge the tapster trustworthy enough to reveal him my true identity as a reincarnated magic god emperor, and declare we’re adding wuxia and xianxia to the fiction tags. That’s like, ten million new readers with a click, how brilliant! How come we never tried that before?

Pity returns to the bartender’s eyes and he gives me another invaluable piece of advice: I should go home.

Home.

That one word helps me sober up enough to remember what I came here for.

Right, I should find Sephram. I have no clue where he is, though. To be entirely honest, I don’t even care. We were supposed to look for some people and investigate this and that together—I can't remember too clearly—but the more I think about it the more a pain it seems. Wouldn’t it be better if I just take care of everything by myself tonight, and then zip back home? I shouldn’t keep Irifan waiting.

“Hey, Sam,” I raise my voice and call the barkeep. I don’t know his real name, but he looks a lot like a Sam to me. “Before I go…Could you tell me everything you know about your lawless dope trade with the Kingdom?”

I believe I presented my business with exceptional clarity and eloquence, considering how wasted I am.

But right after, a chilling silence spreads in the lounge.

The music stops and I feel a lot of eyes land on my back. On my back, not just my ass, and they don’t seem admiring.

The bartender slowly leans over the counter and his business smile is gone.

“My lady,” he slowly articulates, lowering his tone, “I believe it is best you left. Now.”

The man snaps his thick fingers. Shortly after, a squad of six bouncers walks in. Robust men built like barrels, wearing similar deep purple outfits, wide, grim faces, heads shaved. With no unnecessary noise but as quickly as reasonably possible, they cross the club floor on the way to pick me up. You don’t suppose they’ll call me a cab?

“Okay, how much do I owe you?” I ask Sam and begin to look for my purse.

“No need,” he stops me. “We’ll be content to inherit what little you have on you—after you are safely buried in the earth’s bosom.”

“Damn, are you threatening me, Sam?”

“You are free to take it as you like, my lady. And my name is not Sam!”

The place may look nice on the surface, but the locals really are awfully xenophobic!

“You know,” I say, “the only people who get upset when someone’s asking questions are those who have things to hide. You wouldn’t happen to be one of those people, would you?”

“Don’t we all have things to hide?” Sam retorts and backs away from the counter, a cold smile on his mean face.

An excellent point. Me? I have nothing if not things to hide. And if I get offed here, they’re going to empty my room at home and find under my bed the stash of lesbian erotica I commissioned from the town bard. Not all of it was money well spent and may give a very misleading impression of my tastes.

I can’t let that happen.

I wait for the first bouncer to grab my shoulder, before I drive my elbow into his solar plexus. When he reflexively bends over, I punch sharply up at the bottom of his chin. A discreet vambrace covers my arm, extended to the level of the knuckles. It looks like plain cloth but has a titanium plate inside, which adds a bit of oomph to my punches. Especially when buffed with a touch of mana.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

The man passes out against the counter, pulling an armful of glasses along. I spin around on the stool and hop off to face his buddies.

Another bouncer reaches out to grab me. I take the side of his palm across and twist the wrist clockwise to lock the joint. To ease the pain flaring up along his chunky arm, he reflexively leans right. I unwind my hold, turn, and send a spinning hook kick at his chin as he swings back up. Ooh, that’s gotta hurt!

Oh, I’m not enjoying this!

Not at all. I’m emotionally detached, like a true pro. This is purely self-defense, they started it! You’re all my witnesses!

The third guy steps up right behind his buddy. And he’s not one bit smarter. He comes looking like he wants to give me a bear hug, with no guard to speak of. So I answer his warm feelings with a machine-gun rate double punch at the center of mass. It stings a lot worse than he expected. He stumbles back and I follow through with a push kick in the chest. The fatso drops on his back on the floor and is out.

The remaining gentlemen come all at once like a wave of lard and muscle. They think all I have in my sleeve is a bit of knock-off kung-fu. Boy, do you have another thing coming. I slam the trio with a Shockwave in the face. Bam, it's a home run. The row of bouncers goes merrily flying across the bar and crashes through a number of tables and chairs upon landing. Hills of glasses are knocked over and shatter on the black stone floor, and a handful of unwitting customers takes a tumble too. Oops.

I’m really sorry about that! Looks like I misgauged the output a bit. Maybe I leveled up too much? Figuratively speaking. This isn’t LitRPG.

The show has become a little too wild for the customers by this point. They may be used to an occasional brawl, but magic is another matter. Those closest to the exit make a run for it, energetically yelling and screaming, while the others hide under their tables. Could you please stay right where you are? I have more questions to ask—

Behind the counter, Sam gives out a long whistle.

A door bursts open in the far back and more bouncers come out. A lot more bouncers. They pour out as a steady, unending stream and look positively pissed. What were they doing back there!? Playing Uno? It’s some beehive I’ve kicked. I see curved daggers, scimitars, chain sickles, and some such oriental instruments of death being threateningly brandished. I’m starting to think they’re not actually bouncers, but gangsters. Who would've thought? They do wear matching shirts!

And it’s high time I blew this joint.

6 : 272 : 13 : 52 : 11

Nikéa. A city state with a population of roughly two million. The climate is temperate all year around. The locals are very warm-hearted, not to mention hot-blooded, and put great importance to community bonds. Much of the region may be barren desert and canyons, but they don't let the fact dampen their lively spirits. These people are tender poets at heart, with an eye for beauty. They farm pretty flowers like poppies and also cotton and pepper, and thanksgiving turkeys.

The local architecture is characterized by minimalist base forms like boxes.

Rich people live in big, clean-polished stone boxes that have nice, artistic paint patterns going around them. The poor people live in dirty, crumbling boxes, with straws sticking through the home-made brickworks. There are a lot more poor boxes than there are rich boxes, piled up in dense clusters around the limits of the wealthier central city. In fact, the houses are so close to each other that in tighter alleys you can only squeeze through sideways, and things get very heated if somebody else comes the other way.

The Sultan’s palace dominates the view in the heart of the city with its massive central dome, shaped like a big, gilded onion.

Yep, you guessed it. That’s where the Sultan lives. No tourists or riff-raff are allowed in, sadly. To make sure your curiosity won’t get the better of you, there’s a vast wall built around the royal district. Very tall. It took over eighty years for the ancient Nikéans to build that wall, or so I’ve been told. And I can believe it.

The palace complex looks absolutely fabulous in the moonlight. Even better than the one in Aladdin.

Too bad you aren’t here to see it.

My enjoyment of the sightseeing tour is a little inhibited by the angry mob at my heels. I’m putting in my best effort, but every time I look back, it seems the crowd is only getting bigger. Giving up is not in these people's vocabulary. When they decide to cut your neck, they’ll give it their all. Such admirable spirit. We should all strive to be similarly tenacious in our daily labors.

Boy, they sure can run. How do I lose these guys?

I’m still faster, my legs are longer and I’m a practiced runner, but they have the home field advantage. They know all the shortcuts and dead ends and even the power of cooperation. I scrape by their ambush points with magic and dirty tricks, but my endurance isn't unlimited.

There’s not one haycart or a loo to hide in. All the doors are closed. Even the wells have covers, the windows are shuttered.

I may be in trouble. Something like a plan might be good-ish.

Plan, plan, plan.

Oh holy Mary, I’m too drunk to think.

Then a dark figure lunges out of the shadows behind the next corner and tackles me mid-run.

“——Oof!”

I didn't see it coming at all. Before I know it, a strong arm catches around my slim waist and hauls me across the street, through a porte cochere on the other side. As soon as we’re through the gateway, a latticed grille falls behind us to close the path.

A few more steps in and my mystery assailant drops me off, less than gently. Everything's spinning.

“Make a ward,” Sephram orders.

I knew it was him. No panic.

Right, a ward. Granny did teach me a few. How did it go again?

I sit up on the ground and doodle a few runes in the dust with my finger. The letters don't need to be visible. All that matters is that you go through the correct motions. A repelling ward should be good enough. Don’t come this way. Let’s add a disorienting one as a bonus. If you try to come this way, you’ll lose your sense of balance. Done.

As soon as I finish the last letter, the meaty avalanche of gangsters flushes past us, the way they assume I went. None of them pauses to give the loose gate a look, though it’s right there. Guess I did it right. Wards may be handy in the right circumstances, but…there’s just no style to them. No drama. But at least we're safe.

“Hey, nice timing, my rogue friend!” I get up and greet my savior with open arms. “Long time no see! That makes it the—what, second? Third time you’ve saved me? I already lost count! Good thing we’re colleagues, or I might owe sexual favors! But it’s all in a day's work, right? A hug is the best I can do.”

Sephram goes for no hugs, but checks if there are any more villains hanging about, and then leaves the other way.

“Let’s go.”

Yikes. He’s mad. He’s mad, isn’t he?

I hurry after the guy.

“Hey, what’s the hot rush? I was just taking in the sights! Okay, my tour guides got a bit carried away deciding who gets to hold hands with me, but nothing worse than that! I can’t help being attractive! I was simply born with it.”

Sephram stops and gives me a condemning sort of look. “Have you been drinking?”

“Maybe?” I posit. “But can you honestly say it makes any difference?”

He sighs and goes on, grumbling under his breath. “I can’t believe they sent you. Two years and you haven’t changed a bit.”

“Hey, thanks. You too.”

“It was not a compliment.”

“But I have changed,” I point out. “I’ve got arguably the best ass in Orethgon now. Well, second best. Number one remains in a league of her own. It has to be some kind of Divine blessing, ‘cos there’s no way to explain that sublime hip-to-waist ratio by natural means. It can't be just about diet and genetics, can it? I won't believe it!”

“Can you give it a rest?” he groans.

“Right.” I try to keep up. “Back to being grim and grimy. No fun allowed. This’ll be our Snyder cut.”

“Do you really have nothing better to say after you nearly ruined our entire operation, four years in the making?” he asks. “Within hours of your arrival?”

“You’re exaggerating. Everything’s fine. I haven’t been here for an hour and I already got more results than you in four years! That pub I went to? Club? Whatever you call it. Well, turns out they’re in on it. They’re owned by the mob. And have an exquisite selection, and great taste in interior décor too. They tried to kill me, but I'm already jonesing to go back, so they must be doing things right, from the business perspective.”

Sephram stops and turns back to me. “What happened?”

“Well, I got curious,” I start to explain. “They refuse to sell me hard liquor in Morelieu, and I wanted to broaden my horizons a little. It’s my first time in another country and nobody’s asking for IDs—”

“—No,” Sephram interrupts me at the prelude. “I mean, why are you like that?”

“Like what?”

He shrugs. “Insane? Unhinged?”

“Uhh…” What's that got to do with anything?

“No, really, do enlighten me,” he pushes, expectantly crossing his arms. “If we’re going to be working together, don’t you think I should know why my partner is such a loose cannon?”

“Is this really the time for that? Don’t we have a war to stop? If we stick around for too long, the gang might come back…”

I step to go past Sephram, but he stops me short.

“Before anything else, I need one very good reason not to send you back home the way you came, and I'd like to have it now. How about it? Can you give me even half a reason?”

I stand gobsmacked.

“Excuse me, are you giving me terms now? You can’t just send the hero home before the climax of the story! That’s an illegal move. And I’m giving you the yellow card—”

“—I get it,” Sephram says and takes a step closer.

“You do?” I ask, doubtful. That's really too close.

“I do,” he says. “You’re scared.”

“What?” What a ridiculous idea! “No, I’m not—”

“—You’re scared shitless. You're petrified.”

“No. I’m—”

“—You’re just a kid who got mixed into something way over her head. So you made up the zany act to cope. You mouth off as a big distraction, to keep anyone from seeing the real you, who’s not half as tough as she tries to be, and who would like nothing better but to curl up in a corner and cry. But you know what? Other people aren’t as stupid as you think they are. They don’t need magic powers to see straight through you, ‘Zero’.”

“H-hey...”

“It’s your first mission out here in the big world,” he says. “You want to do it right, you want to make everybody proud—but you don’t know how. There’s too much you simply don’t know. This isn't something you can imagine, or calculate with reason. What if your best isn’t enough? What if things go wrong no matter what you do, or try, and it’s those you love who will have to pay the price? Fear of failure is even more terrifying than the fear of death. It’s the worst. So you instinctively brace yourself for it before it can happen. Half of you is already living in that future, making up excuses for why it had to go wrong. ‘Because I wasn’t even trying,’ ‘because I’m broken inside,’ ‘because I was born under unlucky stars’. You settle into that miserable role, and surround yourself with easy excuses, so that you wouldn't be crushed when it comes true. Well? Am I wrong?”

“I…”

I find myself having trouble breathing. The ground's spinning.

I want to deny it. But I can’t. My tongue doesn't work.

I raise my fist to hit him, but my hand lands feebly on his chest. Because I know he’s right. He nailed it. There’s no comeback from that.

“You—you can’t know that,” I whisper.

“I do,” he says.

“Like hell you do!”

“I know exactly how you feel. Because I’m the same.”

“You're what…?”

“I’m scared too. Every time I go out on a mission. Every time, no matter how many times I do it. If we fail, it means a lot of people are going to die, or our friends die, or we die. There are no second chances, everything has to go right the first time. But we’re not gods. We’re only so many ignorant mortals fumbling to do what we feel is right in hearts, and praying it’ll do.”

“But it’s so fucked up!” I blurt out, unable to hold it in. “It’s always people suffering and dying wherever I look. This world is insane! Why am I here? Why did I have to be here to see it?”

“No one has the answer to that,” Sephram says. “It is what it is. We may only know one thing: nothing is going change if you don’t try to change it. Giving up is easy and free, anyone can do that. But unless you pick yourself up and make an honest effort, however futile it seems, you know things are only going to get worse. You don’t want that, do you?”

“Who would!?”

“And if the thought of failure scares you, it’s simply because you can feel the weight of people’s lives. It’s because you understand what they're going through and the pain they’re in. And being able to feel that, being scared, proves that somewhere deep down…you are actually a good person.”

“Uhuhuu…!”

I finally sink to my knees on the alley floor, oozing tears and snot.

I don't even know why I'm crying, but I'm fucking crying. Bawling.

Sephram pats my head and ruffles my hair.

“Now that we got that out of the way, come on,” he says and turns to go. “As you said, we have a war to stop.”

You can’t just destroy me psychologically and then expect me to get back to work again! At least give me a piggy-back ride.

I wipe my face in my sleeves and start pick up the bits and pieces of my spirit.

“Fuck, I hate you cool guys so much!”