The chest was about the size of two shoe boxes stacked atop one another. It was outlined in elegant gold, and plated in a silvery metallic surface that felt smooth and cool to the touch.

  I trembled with anticipation, but as I went to lift the lid open, something shifted. The colors shifted. The gold trim was replaced with an opalescent, pearly white that reflected rainbow hues in the early morning sunlight. The silver metallic surface shimmered, replaced with a light blue metal that glowed with gentle energy.

  Chest rarity upgrade!

  Golden Hero Box → Opalescent Hero Box

  Rarity upgrade? I wondered as I ran my hand over the warm surface of the chest. I had never heard of that. Was it an extra reward for something I had done?

  I examined it further but no additional information populated. I flipped the top of the chest open.

  It dissipated into a multitude of shimmering lights, and the item within manifested into my hand. It was a small, pearlescent marble that hummed with a gentle resonance. I inspected it.

  Holy Gem of the Hero’s Journey. Fabled Unique Item.

  A tale as old as time. This unique artifact harkens to the immortality of the hero. Not of any hero in particular, but rather the idea of sacrifice and overcoming hardship that the hero embodies. Consumed upon use. Fully heals and revives the recently deceased. Revival must occur within ten minutes of death. Requires will and intent to be activated.

  I stared at the small orb in wonder. It rested easily in the palm of my hand, a small white sphere wrapped in thin gold filigree. It felt warm, just as the chest had.

  Death in Veil was a widely debated topic, as the game developers had been tight-lipped. Many people claimed there was a revival system, but it was only accessible to top-level healers. This artifact leant some degree of support to that theory. Others said death was permanent, resulting in permanent deletion of the character. The darkest corners of the internet whispered that death would pass the threshold of the game and kill you in real life, but I didn’t believe those rumors.

  Regardless of what happened upon death, I now had a way to turn it back, at least once. And the last line, about intent, meant I wouldn’t be able to use it on myself, unless I could figure out a way to extend my will beyond the grave — but it was still an incredible item to have.

  I placed it in my inventory and moved it to one of my Quick Use slots, just in case, before opening my mini map and following the quest marker to find my mentor.

  The Fisherman’s Daughter was a small bar, built along the outer rim of the city, where the docks met the urban sprawl that mainly consisted of shanties and homes cobbled together with bits of wood and tarp, expanding small single-story buildings into massive dwellings of questionable structural integrity.

  It had taken the better part of the morning and into the afternoon for me to walk to the Fisherman’s Daughter, after frequent stops and backtracking.

  It felt like someone was watching me or following me, but I wasn’t able to confirm my suspicions. I tried alleviating this feeling by turning randomly, sprinting down side roads, and taking a senseless route that kept me pointed in generally the right direction — all to no avail. If I was being followed or watched, it was by someone more skilled in hiding than I was at observing.

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  The bar had two stories, built with old, weathered wood. A wide porch wrapped the establishment, and sections of wall on both sides were lifted, supported by thick pillars that could be removed so the sections could be lowered and closed, allowing the ocean breeze to flow through.

  I could see the docks and ocean through the building, and while the salt and fish smell of the ocean was not exactly appealing, especially after spending the night amidst Moswynd’s uniquely wonderful aromas of woodland and sea, I imagined it was better than the smells this bar would produce as the night progressed.

  I stepped inside and nodded to a dwarven man who stood behind the counter, dragging a barrel to a sturdy counter built along the back wall lined with others of uniform shape and size. He hoisted it up and sat it amongst the others, nodding back to me.

  The bar was one large room with booths lining the walls. Tables and chairs littered the floor in organized blocks, allowing wide walkways through the building. A few patrons sat scattered about, most with distant, empty expressions and mostly empty mugs. I walked up to the bar as the dwarven man hammered a spigot into the keg he had just placed on the back counter.

  “Good afternoon,” I said. “I am Chanter, nice to meet you.”

  The dwarf grunted, twisting the spigot he had just hammered into the keg slightly, so it was lined up just like the others in the row.

  “Names Owry — welcome to the Fisherman’s Daughter. Ain’t seen ya round here before. What can I do for ya?”

  “I’m looking for Cahl Goldentone.”

  Owry grunted, taking a mug and expertly filling it from the keg he had just prepared, angling the glass slightly to minimize the build up of suds at the top, turning his back to me in the process.

  “Could be I can help ye get in contact with Cahl, but it’ll cost ye.” He spoke while he filled the mug.

  “Mug’o’ale runs two Copper.”

  My stomach, still recovering from the night before, twisted at the thought. “I… think I am okay for now. But I noticed a few of your patrons could use a refill.”

  I produced eight Copper, laying them on the counter. Owry’s bushy black beard rose, and I saw white teeth glistening in a smile as he turned and filled three more mugs.

  “Aye, that they could. Good, good. Right this way, lad.”

  He picked up the four mugs with practiced ease and walked around the bar, distributing them among the patrons. At each table he replaced the empty cup with a full one, saying, “On the house,” before moving on to the next table.

  I followed wordlessly, wondering why he hadn’t just told me where to find Cahl, as we approached the last table.

  A man lay, snoring, an empty mug held loosely in one hand, at a booth in the far corner of the bar. He had the tan skin of a wood elf, but with blonde hair and tear-drop shaped ears that hinted at a mixed race, like Cataryn’s.

  Owry pulled the mug from his hand and replaced it with a full one. The motion disturbed the man, who lifted his head and looked at the two of us with half-lidded eyes. His head swayed slightly, as if keeping it up was a struggle.

  “Cahl, got yerself a visitor,” Owry grunted, “drink’s complement o’ the house. Still gotta clear yer tab before ya get another, though.” He nodded to me before making his way back towards the bar, with four empty glasses in hand.

  Cahl glanced from Owry, to me, then to the glass. He picked it up and drained it in one extended gulp, belched, and laid his head back on the table.

  “Hello, Cahl,” I said, stepping up to the table. “I’m Chanter, nice to meet you.”

  Cahl grunted, cracking open an eye to look at me. “Cut the pleasantries, kid,” he said. He spoke in mumbled, slurring words that were difficult to understand. “Whaddaya want?”

  I produced the Mentor Chit from the Adventurer’s Guild and placed it on the edge of the table. “Your mentorship and referral to the Adventurer’s Guild.”

  Cahl eyed the token for a moment before closing his eyes, laughing once, and replying. His head had remained laying on the table the entire exchange.

  “No.”

  The word was spoken crisp, clear, with no hint of slur or mumble, with the finality of doors being slammed shut.