It started as a dull ache that crawled down his neck, across his collarbone, and into his sternum. He rolled over in discomfort, gritting his teeth, looking for a less lumpy part of his mattress. Must have slept wrong, he thought, staring at the yellow, smoke-stained ceiling. As his vision gradually adjusted to the dark, the room began to sway. Earthquake?
Then came the pain.
Grant gasped as the first spasm hit, arching his back and rattling his bed. His bones cracked, his teeth clamped together tight enough to bite through boiled leather. He tried to cry out, but could only make a jagged moan.
Is Mr. Fletcher stabbing me with a fire poker through my bed?
Before he could laugh at the image, the second spasm crashed into his lower abdomen. His eyes snapped open, bulging as though they’d pop free, any lingering drowsiness withdrawing. He wheezed in a sharp breath, all reason leaving his body as he folded in the other direction and gripped his underclothes. “Wh—what’s happening to me?”
[Calibrating…]
“Calibrating? What the hell does that—?”
The third spasm came even faster, joining the second in uninterrupted agony. A searing contraction shot from his torso down through his extremities, then up again. His knees and elbows locked straight, hands and feet collided with the head and foot of his bed. Grant clenched his jaw and fumbled at the splintered post, desperate to regain control of his body as it tried to tear itself in two. “Goddess,” he whispered. “Please.”
[Calibrating…]
A rush of nausea crashed into him, briefly overshadowing the pain, heat gushing up from his belly. Grant rolled over to vomit on the floor, but missed and sent it splattering down the side of his mattress. Tears flowed uncontrollably, burning breaths came in cracked. Grant gagged when the smell of his own bile hit the back of his throat like a ball of tar. “Just focus. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exh—” He retched again, pushing more tears out the corner of his eyes. He had already voided the contents of his stomach, and further attempts scraped at his raw throat.
The seconds stretched on like hours. Grant began to negotiate a compromise with his body.
I’ll take the pain. Just stop the nausea.
It reached his finger and toenails. They prickled with discomfort, which progressed into an excruciating tearing sensation, as though they were being peeled back with pliers. The sickening metallic stink of blood filled his mouth and nose, and he let out a wordless cry, changing his mind.
No, I can handle the nausea. Please, just no more pain.
He was helpless as he hunched over the side of the bed, on the verge of passing out in his own sickness or losing himself to madness. He’d take either, if he were being honest, or both if it’d stop even a fraction of the agony.
If this is what dying feels like, just get on with it already.
[Calibration complete!]
The pain disappeared as suddenly as it had begun. Grant sucked in short, sharp gasps, waiting for the next wave, distrustful of the body he had spent 18 years in. There were stories, probably false but stories all the same, of torturers breaking their prisoners with small comforts. A sip of water, an open window, even a few hours’ rest. Then they would start up with the stabbing and burning things again, and the poor souls would blubber out information like a baby’s shrieks.
But there was nothing. He pulled in long breaths and blew them out, watching his chest rise and fall, and began to check for any lasting damage, starting with his fingers.
“Where did this come from?” he whispered into the empty room, staring down at his palms. They were sticky and wet with blood. He craned his neck back towards his headboard, which had two red handprints. “Oh.”
He bent and unbent his elbows, rolled his shoulders, lifted his knees, and wiggled his toes. There wasn’t even the slightest lingering soreness. In fact, Grant felt better than he had in years.
It wasn’t right. He shouldn’t just be fine after something like that.
The only sign that anything had changed, other than the dripping from his lap adding to the puddle on the floor, was a small blinking window with the word [Notification] occupying the top-left corner of his field of vision. “Notification?”
Words flashed across his face.
[Congratulations! You have been found compatible for enlistment in The Sixth Campaign. Report to your nearest recruitment center within 11 hours, 59 minutes, and two seconds.]
[Note: Dereliction of duty is a capital offense.]
[Note: The Sixth Campaign will begin in 31 days, 14 hours, 22 minutes, and seven seconds from the present time.]
Each message disappeared the moment Grant finished reading it. Panic of a different kind gripped him, like a garrote wrapped around his neck and pulled taut.
“Oh, no, no, no. Not now.” He clutched his hair, tearing free long, black strands. “The last Campaign was 15 years ago. This makes no sense!”
Grant lay back down, nestling beneath the sheets.
“I’m dreaming. That’s it. I’ll go back to sleep, and tomorrow I’ll wake up with a job at Dan’s forge. What did he say? Ten times the pay, twice the time off? He’ll get a kick out of this story, too.”
This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.
The Notification kept blinking. He tried to push it away, but felt only air on his hands. It didn’t matter that it made no sense. Didn’t matter that it was 35 years early. The Sixth Campaign had come, and he had been selected.
“Dad,” he choked out, then dried his face with his sheets, swallowing a sob and shutting his mouth. It wasn’t as though his dad could help him, even if he were there.
He surveyed the damage to his room, running his tongue over his gums. This he could fix. Sweat had soaked through his sheets and into his mattress. His blanket stank of vomit and blood. He hopped out of bed, and with practiced dexterity, folded his sheets into a ball, careful not to spill any of its mess on the floor. His knees shook and teeth clattered, but he knew what to do. Just focus on what you can control. Linens could be scrubbed clean in a matter of minutes. Wet messes on floorboards took forever to get out, especially when they seeped into the cracks.
The Notification blinked again. What am I doing? He dropped the heap of soiled sheets in the corner.
“OK,” he said. “This isn’t the end. There are still ways out. Dan’s dad will know what to do, right?” He looked down. Did I piss the bed?
“This could even be good. I could be an Anomaly.” Like the heroes from his old picture books, protecting entire towns of innocent people.
He paused.
“Or maybe I’ll just be the next Emperor,” he scoffed.
Virtually all Anomalies were nobility, although there were a few outliers from average or even poor backgrounds who started with hundreds of thousands of Points. It was every Evenonian’s favorite story, that of Kalur the Barmaid. She walked through the Portal with her head high and, against all odds, came out without a scratch on her porcelain skin. Commanded the Emperor’s armies for hundreds of years, if the stories were true.
Grant the Innkeeper. Did Kalur the Barmaid sound so ridiculous before the legends?
He shook his head and focused on his new Interface. “I guess it all comes down to this,” he said. His voice quavered, and his heart thumped in anticipation. “Display available Points.”
[Command unavailable. Suggested action: report to Reader for analysis.]
“What’s a Reader?” he asked the Interface.
It did not respond.
Grant groaned, suddenly regretting daydreaming through his classes on Campaign History. But he knew the basics. Items, Skills, Spells, and Classes could be bought from the Store. Purchasing power was determined by Points.
This varied from Campaign to Campaign, but 90 percent of Campaigners began with something between 10,000 and 50,000 Points. Anyone with over 100,000 Points was considered an Anomaly in the 99th percentile. If the rumors were to be believed, Emperor Genus started with over 300,000 in the Third Campaign.
“What actions are available now?”
[Displaying available actions.]
…
[Display Attributes.]
[Status.]
[Identify.]
[Options.]
Grant figured it was as good a time as any to see what he was working with. “Let’s get this over with. Display Attributes.”
[Displaying Attributes.]
Name: Grant Leeman
Level: 1
Strength: 4
Vitality: 9
Dexterity: 16
Agility: 8
Intelligence: 17
Wisdom: 3
Perception: 22
Four Strength? Is that even possible?
Grant had expected little from his Strength score, but he didn’t expect it to be one-fourth of his Dexterity. I guess I have Mr. Fletcher to thank for that one. All those hours spent deboning fish. It would follow that he had the old man to blame for his Strength, too, but carrying trays of ale didn’t build muscle like mining or porting did.
The Attribute screen still floated in front of him, but he was unable to make sense of the numbers. What was high, and what was low? Based on how he compared with his classmates in sports and academics, he estimated that the average Attribute for an adult would fall somewhere around 10. I bet Dan would have some in the 30s, the lucky bastard.
Cold dread crept up his throat as he realized. Dan had been born a week before Grant. Just in time for the Sixth Campaign. Had he been selected too?
His more selfish half hoped his friend was awake, combing over his own Attribute screen right now. His other half prayed he was peacefully asleep in his bed, and that tomorrow would be nothing more than another normal day at the forge for him. Wasn’t sure which way he wanted it to be.
He brought his attention back to the screen. All the listed Attributes seemed self-explanatory, except for Wisdom. If the average was 10, and his was three, would that mean that Grant was unwise?
Was this something he could just ask? He focused on his Interface and projected his voice in his empty room. “Why is my Wisdom only three?”
[Wisdom is the aggregate score of your exposure to wild and formal Magics, Elemental affinity, Mana capacity, and resistance to Debuffs. A high value is associated with greater potential in the Arcane arts.]
Huh. That wasn’t on the available actions menu.
“Not what I asked, but useful information. So basically, Magic.”
He paused.
“Which I’m apparently talentless in.”
Grant had heard some Campaigners returned able to level entire buildings with an incantation. Others could summon familiars or elementals from foreign planes. A rare few could create blood contracts with contemptible demonic creatures, inflict fatal necrosis on even a paper cut, send into ecstasy or drive others mad with song, or freeze an entire river with a thought.
Their Wisdom must be off the charts.
He couldn’t just go and ask one, of course. Most former Campaigners lived in the capital, served in the military, or earned exorbitant salaries guarding noble territory. There were only a dozen or so in Iori. Most only had Common Skills or Classes. Dan’s father was a notable exception with his Rare Class. Could have easily owned a shop in the capital, but chose to keep his wife and Dan away from it.
If his guess about averages was accurate, that would mean his Perception was staggeringly high. This was no surprise; he had always had a knack for catching details, reading situations, and avoiding danger. Hopefully it was something useful, to make up for his pathetically low Wisdom.
“Only one thing left to do now.” He looked around his room for a random object, eyes landing on his bed. “Let’s cast some Magic.” He took a deep breath and rubbed his hands together. “Identify!” he said with intent. Information flooded his mind.
[Identifying…]
[Name: Repurposed Mortuary Table]
[Age: 29 years]
[Current Owner: Germaine Fletcher]
[Previous Owner: Finn and Finn Morgue and Burial Services]
[Monetary Value: 15 copper]
[Point Value: Not Available]
“Mr. Fletcher has me sleeping on a bed for dead people!?” Grant shouted. He clasped his hand over his mouth, remembering the time. A wave of dizziness washed over him. He stumbled to one knee and grabbed onto a cabinet, which toppled over and landed on top of him, spilling papers off with it.
“Status,” he coughed out from under it.
[Displaying Status…]
[Health Points: 61/62]
[Mana Points: 0/3]
[Buffs: N/A]
[Debuffs: Mana Depletion (3:41 remaining)]
Grant had completely depleted his Mana in a single Identify spell. Yeah, that confirms it. I’m talentless at Magic.
The room wobbled in a shapeless smear as Grant counted down the seconds, bringing back memories of the nausea he felt during Calibration. Nowhere near as bad, fortunately, but he was a sudden movement from retching again.
Identify Spell? More like dizzy spell. He chuckled at his horrible joke, but stopped when it made the room lurch more. Grant took a mental note never to cast that Spell standing up.
The moment the timer reached zero and the Mana Depletion Debuff expired, the feeling passed, and Grant stumbled back to his feet, where he was reminded of the state of his room. His sheets and blankets were soaked, his headboard had two bloody handprints rapidly drying on it, and everything stank of vomit.
He sighed. “Nothing better to do anyway.”
