The original contract was for six months.

  Exploration, security, first contact contingencies. Get in, map it, make sure nothing eats the scientists, get paid, go home. I didn’t think about the word 'home' much back then.

  Now I run the west wall seven days a week. I know which stones settle after rain, which watch posts creak when the wind shifts and which of the new guards need their asses kicked so they don’t fall asleep on shift.

  After the original contract, I brought Mara and Eli through the gate. I really wasn’t sure how Mara was going to take to life on a new planet so only renewed for three months at the time.

  Turns out Mara’s happier than I’ve seen her in years. She loves the slower lifestyle the village offers. She says the air feels honest here.

  Now she’s teaming up with two of the other staff wives and a former tailor from Earth-side and they’re opening a dress shop near the main square. Says there’s demand for clothes that make sense for this place, not costumes pretending it’s somewhere else. They have big plans and I’m so proud of her.

  Eli’s already arguing with the other kids in two languages and thinks the glow-moss is the best thing he’s ever seen. Just don’t get me started on all the salamanders he’s bringing home...

  I miss Earth sometimes. But this place hasn’t felt like an assignment in a long time.

  Personal Journal

  Sergeant Frank Rellan

  Scholars persist in cataloguing magical ability as though it were a bestiary: pyromancers here, geomancers there, sensitives, shapers, binders, and those rare few whose gifts defy useful classification. Most of these talents differ only in emphasis. They are variations of control, not exceptions to it.

  There are, however, abilities that do not fit cleanly within any discipline.

  Foremost among these is the capacity to perceive mana directly—not by inference, not by ritual distortion or reactive effect, but by sight itself. The ability to see the flows of power as they exist in the world.

  In all my years of study, I have found only two credible references to such a faculty. The first is fragmentary, preserved in a margin note from a pre-Conclave scroll from an otherwise unknown author of no note. The second and more recent reference still dates back more than three centuries, attributed to a wandering adept who vanished shortly after the account was recorded.

  This scarcity troubles me.

  Either the gift is so vanishingly rare as to be nearly mythical—or those who possess it quickly learn that silence is its greatest safeguard. For what advantage could rival the ability to see the very medium in which all magic moves? What mage, having such sight, would willingly surrender it to scrutiny?

  It may be that we have mistaken absence of records for absence of talent. Or maybe this ability doesn’t even exist and what we have are two footnotes of charlatans who pulled the wool over the eyes of these writers.

  Learning the truth of this ability remains near the top of my priority study list.

  A Treatise on Arcane Faculties, Abilities and Their Misclassification

  Theren Valcyr,

  Seventh Chair of the Aurelian Conclave

  Let it be known that war, like theatre, is best understood through preparation, posture, and proper costuming.

  Too many modern treatises reduce combat to numbers, angles, and efficiency, as though victory were a ledger to be balanced rather than a story to be told. This is nonsense. A blade is not merely steel. It is lineage. It is intention. It is the echo of every hand that has ever raised it in anger, fear, or righteous defense.

  In compiling this work, I have drawn from every credible source available to me: the masters of Earth’s long and glorious past—Talhoffer, Fiore, Meyer, Musashi (translated thrice, argued twice)—as well as the living traditions that I have thus far wrestled from this new world, whose knights, mercenaries, and monsters alike have much to teach us.

  One must understand footwork before flourish, reach before romance, and leverage before legend. Yet one must never forget that legend is what survives when technique is forgotten and there is much to be learned from those stories as well.

  As I have often told my new trainees: every swing tells a story. The tragedy is not in losing a fight, but in fighting without knowing what tale you are trying to tell.

  This volume, then, is not merely an encyclopedia of the sum of all premodern martial warfare. It is a remembrance. A stitching together of disciplines, centuries, and philosophies, so that no student need ever stand on a battlefield without knowing that they are part of something ancient and grand, and profoundly worth doing well.

  The Living Codex of Steel, Honor, and Proper Stance,

  Volume I: Foundations, Footwork, and the Moral Weight of a Cape

  Sir William the Bold; Bill Blachley

  Much has been made, by cowards and skeptics alike, of the so-called ANIP, that whispering presence which observes a trainee’s stance, tracks their missteps, and offers correction faster than any drillmaster with a switch ever could.

  I, for one, welcome it.

  Think of it not as a device, but as an incorruptible squire of tireless patience. It never yawns. It never forgets a mistake. It does not soften its judgment because it likes you, nor does it grow cruel because it does not. It watches, remembers, and reminds, again and again until the body learns what the mind resists.

  I have seen students grasp in days what once took months. Footwork settles sooner. Guards rise without thought. Blades return to the center guided by instinct rather than instruction. This is not cheating. This is simply a compression.

  Some may complain that such learning lacks soul. That technique earned too quickly must be shallow.

  To them I say: nonsense.

  The soul is not forged by slowness. It is forged by intention. If a trainee learns faster, then splendid! They may spend the saved time on judgment, courage, restraint, and other virtues no device can teach.

  The ANIP merely ensures that when lessons arrive, the body is ready to listen.

  The Living Codex of Steel, Honor, and Proper Stance,

  Volume IV: On Training Spirits, Invisible Squires, and the Acceleration of Mastery

  Sir William the Bold; Bill Blachley

  Perimeter status remains nominal (Ops shorthand for nothing has killed us yet today.)

  Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.

  In the last six months I’ve logged: a handful of antlered rabbits the size of a motorcycles, three varieties of carnivorous plants (one with a too-mobile vine network), a flock of birds that scream like small children when they hunt, and something in the marsh that was big enough to pull a deer off the shore but too fast for us to get proper visuals.

  Most threats here don’t act like monsters. They act like wildlife that has never learned to be afraid of people. That makes them worse in my opinion. You can’t intimidate a thing that doesn’t understand where we fit on the dominance hierarchy, and you can’t negotiate with something whose idea of territory is “everything I can smell.”

  The scouts are holding a circle about 5 km around the village. Keeping roads clear and threats away from the village is priority number one. Losses have been within an acceptable range considering what we are trying to do here.

  Recommendation remains unchanged: Increase the number of bodies we have. Keep patrols moving.

  It is also important to remind ALL staff, not just the new guys, that yesterday’s map doesn’t necessarily apply today, and just because something didn’t attack them once does not mean it won’t next time. (Elan Smythe is still recovering from the hit he took from those rabbits and has days to go before he’ll be back on his feet.)

  Operations Log, SHIELD

  Outer Perimeter & Scout Coordination

  Lt. Pavel

  I don’t know why I’m writing a letter home that I can’t even send. But I needed to get some things out of my head. Maybe I should just start a journal; I’ve seen a lot of others doing that.

  I doubt there is a way I can explain any of the things in my head that would make any sense to anyone on the Earth side of the gate. You’ve always been there to help me work through things like this (well, not like THIS… this is a new one) and I’d really like to talk to you now, but this is going to have to do and I will just try and imagine what your answers might be.

  …Earth feels wrong now. Not bad. Just… off. I go back to school on Mondays but my hands want to pick up a sword, not a pen. I keep checking corners and every single shadow.

  People here complain about traffic and coffee, and project due dates and I want to shake them and tell them that last weekend a thing with too many legs tried to eat my friend.

  Then Friday hits and I’m packing again, my stomach knots because Earth-3 is beautiful and terrifying and real in a way Earth forgot how to be.

  The worst part is the switch.

  You step through the gate, in either direction, and you are in a world where the other one, and all the tools you need to survive in it, just don’t exist and don’t matter.

  Some days it’s really hard to figure out which version of me is real anymore.

  Unsent letter,

  Wayward Suns

  Jonah Martin

  Everybody keeps discussing what they are getting paid back on earth. Like it matters. Like they understand how to predict it. They can’t. I haven’t talked to a single adventurer here that understands how they are getting paid. All anyone knows is that it’s a lot.

  The problem is the contract is full of hazard multipliers, audience bonuses, loot shares, survival clauses, and a dozen other levers that move depending on who almost dies each week. Everybody's making a small fortune. That’s all that matters at the end of the day.

  Although, after three months, it stops mattering.

  A small fortune in Earth money is a completely abstract concept after you stop going back to Earth. It's just something that keeps accumulating—digits ticking upward in some system you barely think about.

  It’s like working an oil rig, or a deep mine somewhere where you are onsite for weeks at a time. Long rotations. Nowhere to spend a cent. You tell yourself it’s temporary and you’re banking everything for the future.

  Maybe one day I’ll go back and realize I’m rich. But I’m not actually sure I’d know how to live back there ever again.

  Personal Journal

  Crimson Fangs

  Janice Rommel, Ranger

  The ANIP system is used from day one in training to teach us all the standard combat packages that Dungeon Inc. has put together for us. It’s like the ultimate tutorial program, with text, audio and visual help options. It can even make you see the things you need to do by projecting onto your HUD.

  Beyond that though, I wonder how it decides who gets to learn what. That’s the part that bothers me.

  Everyone ends up with different options. Different “class skills” apparently. Same hardware. Same baseline tech. Different menus. Which means the system is deciding something about us long before we know it ourselves. Or is it just some tech somewhere in the Underground deciding for us?

  As far as I can tell, almost anything you want to learn is in there. Combat styles, footwork variants, obscure weapon forms. It feels less like a training program and more like it’s plugged into the ultimate database. Maybe it is. Maybe it’s just the internet distilled, indexed, and stripped of noise.

  I tested a new theory last week.

  I spent some time in the computer lab and started learning traditional basket weaving. Old-world stuff. Videos, forums, bad PDFs. Sixty hours of practice so far. I have calluses in weird places and have stripped most of the reeds from the lake by now.

  Then, quietly, the ANIP flagged it. I got a new lesson plan in my available menu.

  There was no announcement. It was just… available one day.

  So maybe you don’t get assigned a path. Maybe you earn the right to see it.

  Either way, I’ve got eighty hours in now and a room full of baskets.

  Everyone needs a hobby.

  Personal Journal

  Steel Wings

  Sam Turnth, Fighter

  I talk to my family all the time. Messages, calls, holidays when I can get them. We’re very close. Which makes my new life difficult sometimes.

  I never lied to my mother, a single time, in my entire life. Not until I took this job with Dungeon Inc. that is.

  Now there are huge parts of my life that I just can’t explain. Whole weeks I have to compress into white lies, making up things I’ve been doing in a life that I have mostly left behind.

  It’s not like I have a choice. Earth-3 can’t fit into normal conversation. The ANIP won’t allow it. My mother would never understand even if I could though. Not the danger. Not the purpose. Not why I chose to stay.

  I have no choice. But I hate it.

  I went home for Thanksgiving this year (of course) and just sat at the table with my mother and my aunts while they talked over each other in Italian, hands moving, voices overlapping the way they always do. I laughed at the right moments. Answered without thinking.

  It wasn’t until my mother stopped mid-sentence and stared at me that I realized something was wrong.

  I hadn’t noticed the ANIP translating. Not consciously. It had just… stepped in. Like its suppose to do. But I never learned Italian growing up. I’m not SUPPOSED to know it.

  I panicked and said I’d taken Italian as an elective in school. That I’d kept it quiet as a surprise. Everyone laughed. My mother looked proud.

  I smiled back.

  Later, in the guest room, I sat on the edge of the bed and hated myself. I hate lying to her. I hate how easy it was. How natural.

  Earth-3 takes more from you than blood or time. Sometimes it takes the truth.

  Personal Journal

  Iron Fangs

  Elira Renaldi, Ranger

  HEX says dungeons are a side effect of us coming here. Quantum ripples or something. Little stress fractures where realities don’t quite agree with each other. I think they have way too much confidence in their theory.

  And the locals don’t buy it.

  According to some of the people I’ve talked to on our travels, the dungeons have always been here. Older than kingdoms. Older than maps. They talk about them the way sailors talk about storms—not random, but present and mapable dangers.

  They have whole adventurers guilds set up to neutralize dungeons. Although they can’t close them like we can. And we’ve closed a lot… the Iron Fangs alone have closed out almost 30 dungeons in our time here.

  The killing part is easy at first. We were trained to kill the monsters. We go into the dungeons, they snarl, they attack, they die. Clear outcomes.

  It’s the others that stay with you.

  The ones that talk. Bargain. Beg. Is a goblin a monster?

  Those nights are harder. You lie awake replaying conversations instead of fights. Wondering where the line really is, and whether you crossed it—or whether it was drawn that way long before you arrived.

  If dungeons are just quantum ripples, then the killing doesn’t really matter. Maybe that’s why the eggheads feed us that line.

  Personal Journal

  Iron Fangs

  Marcus Steele; Knight

  Consider checking out this story as well: (???)つ━━???: *?