Taming Destiny

Book 1: Leap

CHAPTER ONE

Shadow of the Man I Used to Be

I’m sorry, what?” I can barely believe my ears as I stare at the woman sitting in front of me.

Helen sighs, as if destroying what little is left of my life is simply something she’d dearly like to tick off a list. But then, what else should I expect from a woman who met my request for bereavement leave with the question, “Can’t you take it another week?”

How she ever started working in HR, I have no idea.

“I said, we regret to inform you that you are fired, Markus.” She says the words with such a lack of emotion that it’s not surprising I need to hear it twice. Then again, she’s not called the “Ice Queen” for nothing. “You are to remove all personal effects from your desk immediately. Jones will walk with you to ensure that everything is cleared correctly.”

More like to ensure that I don’t decide to do something stupid for revenge like delete or steal employee details, I say bitterly to myself.

According to them, my conduct over the past three weeks has not been appropriate for my role and is worthy of dismissal. “As a member of human resources, you should be demonstrating the epitome of good conduct,” Helen had said.

Apparently, being late three times in that time period along with missing two deadlines by a day is sufficient justification for summarily firing me. Never mind the fact that I’d never been late before. Also completely ignoring my past history of religiously meeting every deadline, even when it meant I had to stay until almost midnight on some evenings. Apparently, the fact that my father was dying meant nothing to them. That, and the fact that the deadlines fell on the day of his funeral, which I had officially been given leave for, albeit grudgingly.

I’m numb as I’m escorted out of my manager’s—former manager’s—office by Jones, the security guard who I’ve nodded to on the way in and out of the office every day for the last five years. My pink slip—not actually pink, but white—is clutched in one hand. I barely notice the looks of my colleagues as I am marched through the familiar corridors.

Then I’m at my desk, though I don’t really remember getting here. Jones hands me a cardboard box, and I stare at it for a moment unseeingly.

“You need to put all your stuff in there,” he says gruffly, but not unkindly. I look up and meet his eyes. There’s pity there, and I quickly look away, unable to bear it.

Reaching out, I take my picture of Lucy from the desk. Recently it’s been turned to the wall, but I haven’t been able to get rid of it completely. Even now I can’t leave it, but I don’t look at it either. Next is the pen my father gave me when I graduated from uni. Then my penholder—nothing special, just something I bought myself when I got irritated with my pens lying all over the place. Item by item, the remnants of my presence in this shared office are removed. And as each object is taken and packed in that small cardboard box, I find the numbness fading and being replaced by anger. How dare they treat me this way? After everything I’ve given up for them? Glancing around the half-walls of the cubicle, I see the three colleagues who share—shared—this office watching me. My team. Or they were an hour ago, anyway. I see the same pity in their eyes that I saw in those of Jones. Pity and judgement. They think I’ve earned this somehow. That I’ve earned being treated like a criminal.

You’ll be next, I think without saying it, scowling at my cubicle walls instead. Now that my brain is working a little better, I know what’s happening here. At least, I think I do. Outsourcing has been bandied about a good number of times; more recently, it’s been a process of replacing less-key members with AI. Thinking about my recent task list, I can see that it would be ripe to be taken over almost entirely by software.

I don’t know when it happened. At some point I got shunted out of a more face-to-face role dealing with people and into more administrative tasks. Was it after Lucy left me? Or when my father first got diagnosed with stage four cancer? I don’t know. Either way, I can’t remember the last time I conducted the interview of a candidate or did an actual performance review with an employee. I’ve still been preparing them—finding the data about the employee, writing the job post description and the key requirements. But someone else has actually been doing the meetings. I bet that this dismissal is just so they can buy a much cheaper technological solution.

Actually, when was the last time I was invited to a meeting with more than just my team? Maybe that should have been a red flag. I shake my head. I’ve been completely off the ball recently, I mourn to myself. But facing the loss of my father brought back all the trauma of losing my mother so many years ago. I just … couldn’t focus on anything. But couldn’t they have given me a break? I’ve given them five years of my life. Five years where I’ve been a model employee. Haven’t I earned three weeks of slight leeway? Especially when I did actually do everything they asked me to.

Apparently not. But then, if my theory is right, it really wouldn’t have mattered what I did—they would have found fault and a reason to fire me eventually. It looks like replacing Helen as HR director isn’t going to happen now. Perhaps I was a fool to ever believe that it could.

“Done?” Jones’s question jolts me out of my thoughts. I realize that I am and have just been standing there, staring into space, for who knows how long. “Yes,” I croak through a dry throat. I’m done. Done with this company. Done with this job. As I am escorted out of the office, more eyes follow my walk of shame, I feel the recent events on my shoulders like a mountain of regret. By the time I’m standing on the pavement outside the office, my cardboard box in my hands, a few meaningless words of sympathy from Jones thrown at me like change at a beggar, I wonder something else.

With everything I’ve lost, what else do I have left?

Although I uncomfortably dismissed the question when it was first posed by my subconscious outside the office building, it comes back to me later. And then again when I’m halfway through a bottle of whisky. It’s not my habit to drink my troubles away. But this afternoon, after getting home at least three hours before I normally would and with nothing else to do, I realize the emptiness of my life. I couldn’t resist trying to find solace in the bottle. Honestly, though, all I’ve found there has been the same question I asked myself earlier: what do I have left? And its natural brother: what do I have to live for?

My mother is dead, and my father has now gone to join her. I have no other family I’m on speaking terms with. Especially not after my father’s funeral and the way my aunt behaved at it. I drove my girlfriend away weeks ago with my dedication to the company that has just fired me. I have no friends, my connections with schoolmates disappearing with age and distance, and my busy job didn’t offer me much time to socialize. Apart from with work colleagues, of course, but the thought of trying to continue those relationships after what just happened … ? No. Just … no. And so I drink. At some point I find myself on the edge of my roof, staring down at the street below. Do I dare take another step? End it here and now?

The playful wind pulls and pushes, as fickle as a woman promising to always be there one moment and then disappearing the next. A gust pushes me back hard enough that my drunken limbs fail to keep me balanced, and I fall flat on my ass, barking a humorless laugh. Is that a message from God? Or the Devil? If either exists, which I doubt. Either way, I find that I cannot summon the courage to step up to the edge again. Unsteadily, I make my way back into my apartment, collapse back into my overstuffed armchair, and raise my bottle to my lips once more. Time passes.

Drink by drink, I make my way steadily through my alcohol cabinet starting with wine, then moving onto spirits to keep the buzz going and keep the impact of my memories at bay.

It’s a catch-22. Being drunk adds a layer of fuzziness between me and the memories, covering the glass shards with a soft blanket. But at the same time it stops me being able to think about anything else.

I wallow in thoughts of the past, of happier times. And of not-so-happy times, which at the very least were better than the present if only because of the people sharing them with me. My mother—dead. My father—dead. My girlfriend—gone. My friends—vanished like the morning dew. For a moment I almost stand outside my own body, looking at this hopeless loser sprawled on the sofa. And then I’m back in my body, alcohol sloshing over my face as I tip it too far backwards. I’m a dead man walking; Hell’s at my door; I’m a shadow of the man I was before. I find the song running through my mind and smile bitterly. If Lucy had still been here, she’d have been ragging me to pull myself together, telling me that losing my job isn’t the end of the world. And it’s not. I know that. In my head. But everything together … It’s too much. I pulled myself together after my mother died. Then again after Lucy left me. Then after my father died. How many times do I have to get up and try again? How many more times do I want to?

I’m tempted to take myself up to the roof once more, but when I finally push myself to my feet, I’m distracted.

Something’s happening just next to my overstuffed bookshelf. It takes my sozzled brain a good few seconds to register what I’m looking at. Then, in the very eloquent way all drunks have, I question reality.

“Whas’a?” Stumbling forwards, I wave my hand vaguely in the air underneath the apparition, then through it.

“Stop that,” the ghost says, a mite crossly. “This is difficult enough without you interrupting the projection.”

“Wha? It speaksh?” I murmur, my words slurring together as I stare at the approximately thirty-centimeter-tall pearly-white figure floating a few centimeters off my table.

It looks like a man, neatly dressed in what I muzzily recognize as a vaguely medieval doublet and hose. A bit like what my male coworkers and I wore at an Elizabethan-inspired Christmas party, though with less-poofy trousers and a more normal-height collar—we’d almost poked our own eyes out with the cardboard points of our costumes.

As for the face of the ghost, it looks rather like a stereotypical villain with a pointy beard, moustache, and a dark look that grows even darker as I prod it again.

“Stop that, I said!” the figure barks at me. “Are you … drunk?” it— he—then asks. I shrug languidly.

“Maaaybe,” I drawl. Looking around, I can’t see the whiskey. If I can question whether I’m drunk or not, I clearly haven’t had enough. “Where’s z’whiksy?”

“From the looks of it, you’ve had more than enough,” the ghost tells me disapprovingly. “This is the only hope for my legacy?” he mutters under his breath. “Gods help me.” Sighing, he speaks louder. “I don’t have much time. Drunk or not, listen to me now.” I hold up one finger that turns into two as my eyes lose focus.

“Whiksy firsht,” I tell him as firmly as I can make it. The man sighs again, clear annoyance in the sound.

“Next to you, on the floor.” I lean over the arm of the chair quickly, almost tipping over it as my center of gravity shifts a bit too far. I see the bottle on the floor and grab it, sloshing its contents as I lean back. Already down by more than half, the liquid doesn’t actually spill out of the bottle despite the abrupt movements.

I tip it back, almost missing my mouth again. Taking gulps of the liquid, I barely feel the burn, but the alcohol content soon gets to me as the world starts spinning even more. I tip my head back to stare at the ceiling, marveling at the way the cracks are moving round and round and round …

“Now will you listen?” the apparition asks with frustration in his voice. I wave one hand vaguely in the air, almost hitting myself in the face. “I hope you remember at least some of this when you sober up,” he mutters to himself before once more speaking loudly and clearly.

“I come with an offer. I need to bestow a powerful inheritance on a successor, and the Oracle has indicated that you are my only option if I do not wish my legacy to be destroyed within the next generation.” He continues speaking, but I have lost the ability to focus, staring at the ceiling vacantly as his voice becomes background sound, the odd word filtering in but not making much sense. It’s almost soothing—too much so for my drunken state to endure, and my eyes slip closed without me even noticing.

My hands shaking a little, my head and throat still killing me even after the paracetamol I took, I once more smooth out the piece of parchment. I’ve already read it at least three times since finding it, but I read it once more now, still disbelieving it could be real.

Greetings,

I will briefly reintroduce myself, as due to your … inebriated state during my visit, and the fact that you seemed to fall asleep halfway through, I doubt you took in much of what I had to say. I must be brief. To send the transportation emblem is effort enough; a message is a further expenditure and is greater the longer the message. It is also an expenditure that I had not anticipated needing after already having paid the cost to project a semblance of myself to explain in person and to answer all the questions of the candidate. Nevertheless, I shall present myself again: I am Lord Nicholas of Azaarde. I offer you a new life and the potential of power and influence beyond what you ever thought you could achieve, beyond what you ever thought possible: the inheritance that I and my family have built over the last few centuries. A powerful Class, Skill set, wealth, and further benefits I will inform you of in person await you. I have no heirs of my own and so I must choose one suitable. I have been informed that you are the only hope of my family’s legacy surviving to the next generation, but you will have to prove yourself worthy of it. I would rather it dies with me than that it is destroyed by a drunkard. I say this so you know I do not make this offer lightly. You have the opportunity now of deciding the rest of your life. You can walk away and forget this ever happened. Imagine it was a dream. Or you can take your destiny in your hands and decide who you will be now and in the future. Should you decide to gamble everything on the chance that you show yourself deserving of what I can bestow on you, hold the transportation emblem accompanying this letter and acknowledge aloud your acceptance. I will warn you: the magic of the emblem will draw you across worlds and universes and there is NO way to return. Any unfinished business will, therefore, remain unfinished. You have twenty-four of your hours to decide; after this, the emblem will return to me, and I will know I must attempt to look elsewhere for a worthy heir. I am aware that it would take an unusual type of person to accept such an uncertain offer of potential power in exchange for everything you currently possess. For the sake of my legacy, I can only hope that you might be such an unusual character and, moreover, that you might overcome the trials ahead and prove yourself more than unusual—that you may prove yourself worthy.

My sincerest and most cordial sentiments,

Lord Nicholas Titanbend of Azaarde

My fingers are numb, my heavily hungover brain still unable to fully understand what I’m looking at here. After waking up and worshipping the porcelain god a few times, I’d found this missive folded below an odd-looking emblem. It’s thick and heavy, about three times the size of a coaster, and has an intricate golden design inlaid in a black background. It’s a coat of arms with three sections: a fox in a side profile; a hammer crossed with a sword; and, filling the lower section, a fine spiderweb.

The object isn’t anything I’ve seen before and definitely not something I put there. The parchment is odd too, much heavier and thicker than normal paper, the words written in fountain pen or something. What the hell is the letter talking about, anyway? An inheritance? And why are Class and Skills capitalized? I have a feeling he’s not talking about going back to school. But there’s one line my eyes are drawn back to again and again. “You can take your destiny in your hands and decide who you will be now and in the future.” If it’s somehow real …

Cutting through the depression that I have been mired in for far too long is confusion, incredulity, and one more emotion. Like the light at the end of a long, dark tunnel, I feel the faintest glimmering of hope.

Take my destiny into my own hands … ? It’s a siren call, but my doubting mind quickly pulls me back down to earth. Magic doesn’t exist. Does it? Though there have always been peddlers of miracles, I’ve never truly believed that any of them were genuinely capable. But then, what created that spirit-like apparition last night? I remember it, recall waving my hand around and through it. I recall it speaking to me, and the letter here proves that it wasn’t just a figment of my imagination. Unless I’m being set up, of course—technology nowadays is probably able to produce that effect. But who would bother trying to trick a loser like me? I’m already weighing whether stepping off my apartment roof would be the best option. Trying anything on me now would be kicking a man already prone on the ground.

So, really, what do I have to lose? If it works, great—with magic in the picture, maybe I might even be able to turn my life around for good. And if it doesn’t? If it turns out that this is just one of those reality TV shows where they’re going to leap out from behind the curtain to film my reaction? At least I might be able to offer someone a good laugh. I’m tempted just to accept right away, my hand moving towards the emblem to say the activation phrase and get it over with … but then I hesitate. I’m filthy, covered in alcohol that I sloshed over myself and still in my work clothes from yesterday. Is this really the self I want to take to my new life?

Do I have time, though? Twenty-four hours, he said … It was dark when the apparition came; I remember that much. And the letter must have come after he appeared because he’s referenced my … drunkenness. I eye the window in my bedroom. The light is already falling—between my tiredness from alcohol and my genuine exhaustion, I’ve slept almost the whole day away. I should have time to have a shower, though.

My eyes fall on a picture on my night table, the last taken before she was killed. Maybe I even have enough time to pack a few important keepsakes. If I’m leaving this world for good, I don’t want to leave anything behind that I’ll sorely miss.

Decided, I pull a suitcase from under my bed and start moving around my bedroom and kitchen like a whirlwind.

Wait. I hesitate, pausing in the middle of the room. Can I even take anything with me? It’s a good point. I rush back to the letter and read it again. There’s no indication either way, but surely I wouldn’t just be teleported in the nude? So, I should at least be able to bring whatever I’m wearing. Surely it’s not too far-fetched to imagine I might also be able to bring anything I’m holding? Though, I should probably be able to lift whatever it is off the ground, just to increase the odds.

But, again, what do I have to lose? If I don’t pack the things, they’re lost anyway. If I do pack them, I have a chance at taking them with me. Though, I’d better not take too long about it—I don’t want to accidentally miss my window of time.

It turns out that fitting a life into a few bags is actually pretty difficult. It’s like packing for a holiday in a country I’ve never been to, where I have no idea what awaits me.

In the end, I’ve filled most of the two bags with half my wardrobe and a few pairs of shoes. I’ve got my Kindle and phone and their chargers, but I’ll probably have to rewire the plugs since I don’t know if my universal adaptor is actually universal. Or trans-universal. I’ve taken a cross-head screwdriver anyway. I’ve got my favorite books alongside my Kindle, so at least I should have something to read even if the plugs don’t work.

My bathroom still looks a bit like a bomb hit it. When the alcohol turned my stomach earlier, I wasn’t always quick enough to get to the toilet. Or well-coordinated enough. I’ve settled for just grabbing the items on the basin—my toothbrush and shaving kit. I should be able to buy shampoo and that sort of thing later, I guess. Either way, I’m not walking through vomit and broken shower glass to get them.

Otherwise, I’ve made sure I have my wallet and a few family pictures. I hesitated over including the couple with Lucy I had turned towards the wall after she left, but in the end, I decided to take them. It’s a one-way trip, after all. I even remembered to grab my swimsuit and a pack of condoms, just in case. I pick up a few little nick-nacks that I figure might not be in Nicholas’s world and with that, I’m ready. About to grab the emblem, I pause, a final thought occurring.

Nipping into the kitchen, I wrinkle my nose at the smell and carefully avoid the puddle of broken glass and alcohol lying on the floor to access my pots. Maybe it seems a bit weird, but it took me years to find a wok that cooked food to my satisfaction; I’m not going to leave it behind now.

After finding a spot in my bag to stuff the wok into, I finally grab the round disk of the emblem, hoping that it won’t suddenly disappear out of my fingers, a minute too late to accept the offer. It’s heavy in my hands, both with its physical weight and the weight of this decision. I hesitate, even though it feels like precious seconds are trickling out of my fingers. Do I really want to do this? Go into something completely unknown? Even assuming that the presence of “magic”—or technology sufficiently advanced to be called such—is real and I’m about to be teleported somewhere else, there’s still a lot that could go wrong. What if this is actually some sort of scam for human traffickers or something? What if by “accepting the offer,” I end up becoming some sort of alien slave? I have no guarantee that this Nicholas guy is telling the truth about his motivations. And is my life really that bad? Maybe this dark emptiness won’t always be all I have to look forward to; maybe one day I could pull myself up, maybe make something big of myself …

I bite my lip and then my grip tightens on the emblem. No, I’ve made my decision. Here’s my big chance to make something of myself, to turn my desire to end my life into a desire to transform it. If I don’t at least try this, I might as well just throw myself out of my window and hope I don’t hurt anyone by landing on them. This is my decision, for better or for worse. “Hold the transportation emblem accompanying this letter and acknowledge aloud your acceptance,” said the letter. I’m about to do so when it occurs to me again that I might be better off lifting my suitcases off the ground rather than just holding their handles. It takes a bit of juggling to succeed in holding both suitcases as well as the emblem; the effort it takes to lift what has to be forty-plus kilos reminds me that, as well as everything else, I’ve been neglecting the gym. Still, I succeed eventually and even as my fingers strain and my face reddens from the effort, I gasp out the activation phrase.

“I accept.”

CHAPTER TWO

Proof of Worthiness

For several long moments, nothing happens. I open my eyes, realizing I’ve screwed them shut, only to see my familiar apartment. Did I do something wrong? Or is it a prank after all? No one’s jumped out from behind the door to laugh in my face and film my reaction, but maybe it hasn’t been long enough yet.

Then, as if it just needed a bit of time to get going, I feel the emblem heat up, almost burning my palm. The world lurches sickeningly around me, and I feel my stomach crawl into my mouth as I hear the rushing of a great wind. I close my eyes again in a desperate attempt to quell my motion sickness and only open them again when the rushing wind calms down. What meets my gaze is completely different from anything I was expecting. My mouth hangs open, and I lose the battle with my stomach and, unimpressively, empty it all over the surface on which I stand.

When my stomach is finally empty and beginning to feel settled again, I look around, hoping that my initial impressions were wrong. Unfortunately, it doesn’t appear to be that way; if anything, it’s worse. I don’t know why, but when I imagined where I would be taken, I’d always envisioned a city, or a manor house, or even a palace. The “lord” in the letter must have been what gave me that idea, I realize. This … It’s not a city. It’s not even a village, let alone anything more palatial. Instead, it looks like there are no signs of civilization in sight.

I’m standing on the upper slopes of a mountain, a rocky area covered only in a thin layer of hardy grass. Above me on one side towers a great snow-covered peak; on the other side lies a vast valley full of trees. It’s cradled between mountain peaks and disappears into the distance; my eyes are unable to even make out the mountains at its end. The humid mistiness to the air above the trees doesn’t help in that respect. Otherwise, as far as my eye can see, there is a sea of other mountain peaks stretching out from the mountain on which I stand. They, too, are obscured by mist when my gaze travels too far. I’ve never been anywhere with such untouched nature; there’s not a human construction in sight. It’s intimidating and yet, at the same time, almost exhilarating. To think that I might be the first person to see this view …

The temperature itself is actually rather pleasant, perhaps on the slightly chilly side when the wind blows. The air is crisp and fresh. Too fresh. There’s not a hint of the polluting smells of human presence—not fire, nor petrol. It truly appears to be a paradise for the intrepid backpacker.

Unfortunately, I’ve never been into the whole backpacking thing, and I don’t think anyone would label me as “intrepid.” Heck, I don’t even go on camping trips! I hated them as a child, and then there were no more childhood holidays after … the incident. As an adult, holidays to me meant relaxing in whatever luxury I could afford. I always chose to stay at a hotel, either picking a warm place for a sojourn to the beach or a cold place for skiing. A nice convenient location, some fun or relaxing activities during the day, good food cooked by someone else in the evening … That’s what I call enjoyable.

The only reason I own the massive backpack I’m currently wearing is that I was convinced to take part in a “team building” exercise soon after being hired by a previous employer. Instead of being some fun, well-organized time for us to get to know each other and improve our working relationships, it was a week’s camping trip in the wilds of the Brecon Beacons. Apparently, going hungry, cold, wet, and miserable for a week with a whole load of co-workers who barely knew each other was supposed to help team spirit. And the reason I’d bought a whole new fancy backpack was because I was trying to impress my new colleagues.

Spoiler alert: it didn’t work. Perhaps it would have if my sturdy, practical backpack had been accompanied by a sturdy, practical man, but, as I’ve already established, camping isn’t my thing. Which is why I’m currently desperately hoping that this is some sort of a joke and Lord Nicholas is about to jump out from behind a rock or something. Or that there might be some well-hidden palace just around the corner.

As I think that, the emblem in my hand warms up again. Hope and nerves both rise inside of me again. What if, despite what the letter said, I’m actually about to be transported back? Honestly, I don’t really know how to feel about that. As it happens, I don’t have the time to do any deep soul-searching, as that apparently isn’t the reason for the emblem’s reaction. Instead, it crumbles into glowing motes of dust, which easily fall out of my hand.

The motes drift down, but instead of coating the ground as normal, they take shape in the air. Under my disbelieving gaze, a wooden table comes into existence, rather incongruously placed in this completely natural landscape. It’s a good solid-looking piece of furniture, though the slightly rough ground means that it doesn’t look completely stable.

I rub my eyes, I’ll admit it. My mouth might also be hanging open. I touch the table tentatively, wondering if it will just shatter into dust again before my fingertips can come into contact. It doesn’t, of course, and I just spend a few moments marveling at my first experience with magic. To create something solid from nothing? Amazing!

Once I manage to get past my amazement at how the table appeared, I start to explore what is actually on it. At least, I try to, but the gloves I’m wearing rather impede my ability to pick things up. Cursing softly, I strip them off and shrug off about three extra layers of clothes while I’m at it—I’m hot!

Now more comfortable, I turn back to the table. There are a number of items. Some of them are recognizable, if a little alarming in what they imply; others just look like strangely glowing stones of different shades and sizes. Right in the center is another piece of paper; however, it’s a scroll rather than a folded piece of parchment. It’s rolled up with a blue ribbon and sealed with black wax, indented with the same heraldry that had been on the emblem. Picking up the scroll, I crack the wax reluctantly, briefly admiring the way it looks like something out of the medieval era.

Greetings,

You have taken the first step. You are an unusual person indeed to have dared the unknown in search of a fleeting greatness. However, greatness requires a proof of worthiness, and the price for transporting you from your world to mine is not small. Thus, for the purpose of efficiency, the task for the two aims shall be one and the same. Your objectives in this task are twofold. First, survival: you must survive in your current world for a year. However, you must do more than just survive to achieve your second objective: collecting enough Energy to pay for your passage to my world. I am sure that you will be confused about this last point, so let me explain.

I stop reading at that, taking a deep breath and then starting at the top again. No, I had understood what it was saying. I have to survive here. For a year. Anger rises within me, but I’m self-aware enough to recognize the fear that curdles my stomach underneath it. All my self-awareness doesn’t stop me from feeling this, though, and my thoughts are quickly overtaken by emotion.

As the wave of heat rises within me, my hand clenches and the rustle of paper crunching sounds loudly in the still air. A small part of my mind notes how much more effort I have to use to crush the paper than I would expect, but most of my awareness is concentrating on my thoughts about what I’ve just read.

This is completely ridiculous! What kind of “opportunity” or “new life” is this? Setting aside my worst-case scenarios of some alien version of human trafficking, if this guy Nicholas was on the level, I would expect him to at least welcome me in person! Not dump me in some deserted area and tell me to “survive”—for a year. The fear curdling in my stomach quickly turns into panic. What do I know about survival? A week in the Brecon Beacons hardly counts! I’ve never even watched those reality TV survival shows!

I curse and kick the leg of the table making the items on it wobble alarmingly, one of the colorful stones almost rolling off completely. How the hell is this supposed to show my worthiness? By failing miserably to even set up a tent? No, that’s not referring back to an incident during my previous ill-fated expedition in the “wilds.” Really!

I swear again and storm away from the table. My behavior can be best described as a tantrum as I shout, stamp, wave my arms in anger, and kick the ground. In reality, it’s about more than just this particular problem; I realize after a while that I’m venting all the pent-up anger and frustration and, yes, grief that has been brewing in me over the last few days. Hell, weeks. I’m crying and I don’t even realize it until my eyes blur enough that I can’t see clearly.

This ends my tirade as I kick a hidden rock in a tussock of grass. Sharp pain shoots up my foot. Of course, when I say my tirade comes to an end, that’s only once I’ve turned the air blue while hopping on one leg. I decide to pretend that the tears are from the pain and let myself go a bit. It’s not like anyone is here to see me, after all. Slowly the pain ebbs and with it goes all the intensity of emotion that had been moving me. In its place

I feel calmer, emptier, and ever-so-slightly more settled, like perhaps not now, and not anytime soon, but one day I might feel better. About myself. About my life. Of course, if I really have to survive in an untouched jungle by myself for a year, my life isn’t likely to last very long, but then, I’m the stupid one who decided to accept magical transportation without reading the small print. Or even having the small print to read, as a matter of fact. Maybe that should have been my first warning. Honestly, when I think about it, I’m not angry at Nicholas. Not really. I’m angry at myself. Of course it was going to turn out to be too good to be true; it always is. Anytime I’ve let myself get sucked into something that seems fantastic on the surface, it’s always turned out to be a smelly, putrid bog underneath. This is no different. And although I know I didn’t actually expect magic—or highly advanced technology capable of teleportation and materializing objects out of nothing—to be real, that’s not really an excuse. Nor is the fact that I made the decision under a sense of time pressure and while hungover. I’m better than that. Or I should be, at least.

Contracts are kind of my day job, after all. Were. I sigh, my shoulders slumping, feeling exhausted all of a sudden. Well, I made the decision, and now I’m trapped somewhere with no way to go home, completely at the mercy of nature and whatever these items are. I suppose I’d better make sure I know everything I can about the situation in which I find myself, even if it feels a bit like locking the door after the horse has bolted. Still, I might find out that it’s not quite as bad as I think—maybe the letter will say that there’s a city beyond this valley that I need to get to or something.

After picking up the crumpled piece of paper from where I had thrown it in my tantrum, I smooth it out once more and continue to read.

Energy is found in all things, even on your original world. On your world, however, there was such a minimal density of it that you could not even detect its presence. On my world, Energy is an essential part of life. Relevant to you at this moment are Classes and magic. It is why the stones I have sent you are so useful: the Class stone gives you the Tamer Class and all the advantages that come with this; the knowledge stones allow you to instantly absorb knowledge of a subject, up to a certain limit; the Skill stone instantly gives you access to a Skill outside your Class set, which you can then use immediately. All of this is only possible because of our ability to use Energy. As, of course, is my ability to contact you and pull you part of the way towards my world.

Why only part of the way?

For one simple reason: the amount of Energy to pull you all the way is significant. Frankly, I would need to know that you were worth neglecting all my other responsibilities for the task. As I said at the beginning, it is far more efficient to combine a test of your worthiness with the practicality of paying for your journey.

To be completely blunt, you need to collect sufficient Energy before the year is up. If you do not, the spell will take its due regardless. Given the distances involved, this would most likely cost you your life. As the anchor and initiator of the spell, I would be held partially accountable for your debt should you arrive in my world without having fully paid it, so you can see that it is also in my interest that you gain in strength.

I stop reading for a moment, staring sightlessly over the top of the letter. Great. From bad to worse, I say to myself bitterly. Not only do I need to survive here for a year, but I can’t even plan on just finding a hiding spot and becoming a hermit. No, I actually have to do something to gather “Energy” or I’ll be signing my death warrant anyway. Feeling sick again, I look back at the letter. Better get it over and done with so at least I know what I’m dealing with.

CHAPTER THREE

A Treasure Trove

Scanning the letter to find the point where I’d left off before, I feel my anger rekindle at the cavalier approach Nicholas seems to be taking to my life. Sure, maybe he might have some consequences too if I fail, but it seems very much that the risk is all on my side of things. I continue reading.

At this point, I imagine you are wondering how to collect Energy to pay the debt of your passage. In short, by killing beasts. When a creature is killed, part of its Energy goes to the one who kills it. Believe it or not, the same was true on your previous world; it was just such an Energy-starved place that it would take longer than you have to live currently for you to even start making noticeable progress to pay for your passage. Indeed, that is why I made the choice to pull you to your current world: it may not be populated by civilized beings, but it is well suffused with Energy. A treasure trove, of sorts, if you would only reach out to harvest it.

I feel my heart sink. “Not populated by civilized beings” is the fatal blow to my last, clearly futile, hopes of there being a city beyond the valley that I could travel to. Apparently, I’m being abandoned to the wilderness. What was that term Nicholas used? I check the letter again. A “treasure trove,” he considers it. Somehow, I doubt there are chests full of goodies anywhere near me … And even if there were, where would I spend gold or jewels without any cities? I read on to find out what exactly has been given to me in order to even hope to survive in this unpopulated “treasure trove” of a world.

I have provided the following resources for you:

• A Tamer Class stone (Epic—orange)

• A System lore stone (Novice—light blue)

• A woodcraft knowledge stone (Novice—light green)

• A hunting knowledge stone (Novice—light brown)

• A tracking skill stone (Initiate—brown)

• A Lay-on-Hands Skill stone (Beginner—aquamarine)

• A survival pack including a knife, a water flask, 2 days’ rations, and some other essential items

• 2 minor health potions

These resources should be sufficient to allow you to start the path to power. Because your world seems to be one of technological advancements rather than individual survival, I have included several knowledge stones on this topic.

It is kill or be killed, traveler. Harvest the Energy of others or be yourself harvested. I hope to see you on the other side.

My most cordial and hopeful sentiments,

Lord Nicholas Titanbend of Azaarde

P.S. I suggest that you use the Class stone first and then the Skill stone. Once you have received your Class, you will gain access to your status screen. Check your Intelligence stat before deciding how to use the knowledge and Skill stones; unless you have an Intelligence stat of ten or more, I would suggest not using more than one knowledge stone per day, as you will be unable to absorb the majority of the second. You would need an Intelligence stat of more than twenty to absorb more than two stones in one day with reasonable efficacy.

I stare at the letter, feeling numb. Then I snort; I suppose I have been given what I asked for. If my guess is correct, the things this Nicholas guy has given me are awesome. I just wish I didn’t have to be in the wilderness for a year to get them. Sighing, I lower the piece of paper down and regard the items on the desk thoughtfully. Nicholas suggested using the Class stone first—that’s apparently the orange one. Easily spotting it among the other colors, I pick it up and turn it over in my hand.

The stone is warmer than I would have imagined, almost like someone else has just been holding it. There’s also some slight … buzz or static electricity—the way a rubbed balloon attracts hair except the other way around? Something like that. Either way, I don’t think it’s my imagination to say that I feel something I shouldn’t from a simple stone, never mind the fact that it’s glowing. I figure that I should probably follow Nicholas’s advice; he’s the one who sent me these items, after all. Sure, since arriving in this uninhabited place—instead of wherever he is, to receive the inheritance promised—I’m taking his words with a bit more salt. Even so, I can’t really see why he would give me bad advice—thinking otherwise is just letting my paranoia take over. If he’d wanted me to die immediately, he could have just not sent me anything.

Taking a deep breath, I activate the stone. Well, that’s what I try to do. Turns out, staring intently at the stone is not how to activate it. “Activate?” I say hesitantly. Nothing happens. “Gain Class?” Still nada. “Start? Infuse? Osmosis? Damn you, do something! ” I shout at it, squeezing and glaring.

My eyes go wide as a crunching sounds and a crack appears on its surface. My stomach drops as the crack spreads and fractures further until the whole stone falls into a million pieces no bigger than finely grained sand. Fear claws at my belly—have I just broken my only chance to survive the next year?

The dust glows and suddenly starts melting into my skin. For a moment, it’s like the world has paused, and then the next thing I know, pain is shooting through every atom of my body. It isn’t excruciating, but it’s everywhere. Like pins and needles but not just in one limb. Plus, after a breath, it’s not just at the surface but under as well.

I’m struck with the thought that I could almost map my entire body out, organs included, if I could build a picture based on the prickling sensation. While not terribly painful, it’s enough to make me want to tear my skin off as my mind interprets the prickling as insanely itchy. Then, a few moments later, the pain vanishes as if it was never there. Everything feels … off. Just … wrong, somehow. Like the feeling when you walk into a familiar place where something has changed, but you can’t immediately spot whether it’s the furniture that’s moved or the wall that’s been painted a slightly different shade.

The feeling of wrongness intensifies as a screen suddenly appears in front of me. The screen is made of whitish mist formed in a boxlike shape. The main part of the box is almost opaque, but it fades abruptly around the edges until I can see normally with my peripheral vision. I can just about see through the box enough to tell if I’m about to walk into something, but it would definitely be a better idea to stay still while using it, I think.

Black words in a clear font style are printed on the densest section of the misty space. At the top are two separate words; they look almost like tabs. One says “Status” and the other says “Messages.” From the looks of it, I’m in the “Messages” section.

Congratulations! You have absorbed a Class: Tamer.

You consequently have access to your status. To see this, think or say “status.”

You have 0 status points to assign.

You have 3 new messages.

Next message? Y / N

I think “yes” and the words dissolve away and are replaced swiftly with another message.

Congratulations! You have new Class Skills (2).

Tame: activate this Skill on a being and it will offer the being the option of becoming bound to you. Warning: beings may choose to reject the Bond or require actions from you in exchange for accepting the Bond.

Dominate: activate this Skill on a being to enter into a Battle of Wills, success in which binds the being to you as a Bound. Certain previous actions may increase your likelihood of winning the battle, even with a lower Willpower than your opponent. This includes, but is not limited to, having already defeated the being physically, having trapped the being so that they are unable to move, and having terrified the being. Warning: if you lose the Battle of Wills, you will be rendered vulnerable for ten seconds as you recover. Recommended Willpower before attempting a Battle of Wills: 10–30 for a Stage 1 beast.

Next message? Y / N

Once more, I think “yes” even while my thoughts whirl.

Congratulations on achieving a Class.

You have gained access to an Inventory and a Map.

Your Inventory can hold up to 10 item slots per Class level, starting with five additional spaces per Class-rarity rank above Uncommon. Identical items can stack; the number of items per stack is determined according to the item. Live items cannot be stored. Please note that the storage and withdrawal of items consumes Energy and will not function until you have gained some. You can access your Inventory by thinking or saying “Inventory.”

Your Map keeps track of your environment. This is a passive ability, which you can toggle on or off. This ability consumes a small amount of Energy and will not function until you have gained some. You can access your Map by thinking or saying “Map.”

Next message? Y / N

Congratulations! You are now able to absorb Skill stones. 1 Skill stone detected in range. Do you wish to absorb this Skill stone now? Please note: you can choose to absorb this Skill stone later by holding it and thinking or saying “absorb Skill stone.”

Y / N

I hesitate but think “no” for now. I have enough to consider right now without adding an extra dimension to it. A new message forms in front of me.

Close interface / Return to message panel / View status summary

Nicholas said something about looking at my status screen or something, didn’t he? I think to myself.

“View status summary,” I say. The screen dissolves and reforms, but I don’t have time to register anything it’s showing me. A flash of light scrambles my view and pain explodes in my head.

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