Horace had already peeled off to meet with the local garrison and begin his tank advancement quest while Marie and Amari were en route to Ashengate.

  Rob was waiting for the delivery of his gaming capsule while tying up loose ends in the real world.

  Jack didn’t bother with a break—no bathroom stop, no warm meal. The capsule took care of all that, and right now, every second counted.

  He weaved through players headed out for adventure or rushing between quests. The wooden sword bounced lightly against his hip with every step. His gray drabs hung loose and rough. He hadn’t realized how uncomfortable the beginner outfit was until he’d switched back into it.

  As he approached his destination, the sound of neighing horses and coach riders calling out for passengers grew louder. He had made it: Ashengate’s Coach Station.

  He hadn’t dared risk a coach ride back at Embersgate, where they’d fought the Slayer, but riding Snowy all the way to Bright Hill would take about three hours. Catching a coach here felt safe enough and worth the risk.

  As for his current get-up, anyone who followed Amari’s channel would know he’d unlocked his class at Bright Hill, so he swapped out all his gear and even bought a wooden sword to complete the look of a newbie.

  Most of the carriages here were simple things—open-topped, with weathered wood and mud-caked wheels. The drivers matched the rides: worn clothes, missing teeth.

  But then he saw it—tucked into the far corner, just as Amari had described. Several luxury carriages sat roped off with velvet cords, framed by polished wood and golden filigree. Four horses draped in red silk stood motionless at the head of each one. At the reins sat drivers with long coats and tricorn hats perched just so over white wigs.

  As he made his way over, he spotted two carriages departing with high-level players aboard, and three more pulling in. NPCs stood in conversation with players preparing to board.

  This wasn’t just any carriage—it was a luxury taxi service capable of reaching any destination within the human realms. And more importantly, it was the fastest way to Bright Hill.

  Jack approached one of the drivers who appeared to be available.

  “Hi there.”

  “Morning, sir,” the man replied with a slight bow. “How can I assist such a noble artisan?”

  Jack blinked, caught off guard. He can tell I’m a craftsman? Even dressed like this? Must be my fame stat kicking in. He filed the thought away for later.

  “I want to travel to Bright Hill.”

  “Bright Hill?” The man tilted his head. “That’s the small town near Embersgate, yes?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “I would have thought you'd be headed to Eternia,” the driver said, adjusting his gloves. “But of course—Bright Hill it is. Normally, such a journey costs 20 gold, but for a craftsman of your standing? Let’s say… 18.”

  Jack sighed. Steep, but worth it.

  “Yes, please.”

  The man stepped off the carriage and opened the door. “Right inside, good sir.”

  The interior was even more extravagant than Jack had expected. Plush velvet seats lined either side, embroidered with gold thread and stitched with motifs of galloping horses. The paneling had a lacquered finish, and from somewhere overhead, a faint scent of lavender drifted down.

  Jack stepped inside and made himself comfortable. The cushions and soft fabric hugged him. He felt like he could just melt into all the softness.

  Ha. This is something else. Feels like I’m in a limo or something.

  The door shut behind him with a soft click.

  Then came motion. It wasn't the clunky start of a normal wagon. The entire cabin shifted with grace, as if gliding across glass. Jack slid open the curtains. Outside, buildings began to blur past.

  The rhythm of the wheels was hypnotic, the kind of sound that smoothed out thoughts and pulled at heavy eyelids.

  Jack leaned back and let it carry him off.

  Before long, he was asleep.

  *

  José opened the door to the house and was greeted by darkness.

  What a day… I don’t remember ever feeling so tired.

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  Receiving and giving bad news had worn him down to the bone. Especially the talk with Jack. That look on his son’s face… gut-wrenching.

  He slipped off his shoes, then shrugged out of the coat that had hidden the fact he was still in his pajamas. He climbed the stairs slowly, one step at a time.

  As he passed Jack’s room, he heard a steady hum. That machine his son had bought and buried himself in after hearing the diagnosis.

  I wonder what he’s doing in that thing…

  He entered his and Maria’s room and sat by the side of the bed. He felt too tired to sleep.

  José drummed his fingers on his knee, eyes fixed on the gaming helmet resting on the nightstand—the one Jack had asked him to return to the store.

  He glanced across the empty side of the bed to where his wife should have been, if she didn’t have to work the night shift he had just driven her to.

  He swallowed hard, trying to push past the lump rising in his chest. He’d told Jack that he believed in him—and he did. But at the same time, he’d lied when he told Maria that everything would be fine.

  Here he was—sick, stuck, and staring up at a wall too steep to climb. A wall made of money.

  He inhaled deeply and coughed. Harder than usual. It rattled in his chest, dry and sharp. The meds weren’t working like they used to. The steroids masked the worse of the symptoms, but they weren’t fixing anything.

  He sat back down on the bed, rubbing his chest until the pain dulled. The house was too quiet. Too still.

  He tried to sleep. Lay down, staring up at the ceiling.

  I wonder if death is like falling asleep… A sleep you never wake up from. If it is, will God ever wake me up?

  His thoughts spun, going everywhere and nowhere. Before ten minutes had passed, he was already up again, padding down the hallway.

  He opened the door to Jack’s room gently.

  Inside, the only light came from the LEDs blinking softly across the surface of the pod, casting shifting colors on the walls. José stepped closer and laid a hand on the smooth shell.

  His son. His only son.

  He had never seen Jack this focused. This committed. Whatever this world was, it had lit something in him, a spark José hadn’t seen in the boy for years.

  Should I? Should I really?

  He almost laughed at himself. A man his age, playing games. Ridiculous. And yet… wasn’t it even more ridiculous to do nothing?

  The impact this game had had on his son was impossible to ignore. He couldn’t look down on it anymore. And when Jack said he could earn the money inside this world… somehow, José believed him.

  I wonder what in that world has changed him so much. Or if I could help him somehow.

  He stood there for a long time, hand resting on the pod, feeling the faint vibration under his palm.

  Finally, he turned from the capsule and made his way back to the bedroom. The helmet still sat there, waiting.

  He picked it up, turned it over in his hands, and drew a long breath.

  Then he sat on the edge of the bed, placed it on his head, and lowered the visor.

  The world went dark.

  *

  Jack stirred awake to the sound of reins pulling taut and the coach slowing to a stop. The carriage gave a soft jolt as the rider dismounted, followed by the click of the door being unlatched.

  “Bright Hill, sir,” the driver said, bowing.

  Jack stepped out into the light and blinked at his surroundings.

  Immediately, he knew he’d made a mistake.

  Even though he’d dressed down in beginner’s gear and strapped on a wooden sword to blend in, the arrival of a velvet-rope luxury carriage was anything but discreet. Every nearby player had stopped what they were doing to stare.

  “Whoa! Is that a pro?”

  “Nah, probably just some rich kid showing off.”

  “Mister! Can you carry me?” piped up a tiny voice.

  Jack gulped. Of course. Should’ve seen this coming.

  After all that planning to make a discreet arrival, here he was. At the center of everyone's attention.

  I’ve got to throw them off. Somehow. But what?

  He forced a lazy smirk onto his face and stretched his arms with exaggerated indifference. “Finally,” he said, loud enough for nearby players to hear. “That was such a long ride. I can’t believe how slow this piece of junk is.”

  He gave a mock sniff of the air and pinched his nose. “Oof. The stench of poverty really sucks. I should really invest in a private server or something.”

  A few players grimaced in disgust. Others perked up, intrigued by the idea of cozying up to someone with deep pockets. Either way, it worked. No one pegged him as a veteran. No one asked about his class.

  “Hi! I’m Mara,” a cheerful player called out, bounding up with two others close behind. “These are my friends, Bobby and Tanya. Wanna go on a hunt together?”

  “Sorry. Not interested.” He waved her off without slowing down, brushing aside similar invites as he made his way across the square.

  The dirt paths and squat buildings were just as Jack remembered. But something was off.

  Every building was crowded, and nearly every NPC was mid-conversation with a player. The air buzzed with overlapping voices. Bright Hill was bursting at the seams.

  Eventually, Jack managed to shake off the players tailing him and finally had room to look around. His eyes landed on the street with Jenny’s house, and he winced. A line of players stretched from her door and down the path.

  Why is there such a long line?

  When he’d learned pottery, he’d only ever crossed paths with one other student. It wasn’t supposed to be such a popular minor.

  Jack scratched his head, wondering if the game had exploded in popularity during the months since he started playing.

  He made his way toward the center of the village and paused at the fountain—the one with the statue of the warrior and the craftsman. The woman held a drawn bow, the man a hammer. The fountain’s edge was shaped like the battlements of a great wall. He lingered for a moment, then turned right and walked past the smithy.

  There was no line here.

  Jack frowned. That’s strange. Pottery has a queue, and smithing doesn’t?

  He followed the road, eyes scanning ahead, until he saw the biggest commotion yet.

  The small makeshift shack where Kevin lived—the one ignored by everyone when Jack first arrived—now had dozens of players packed around it.

  “Please, Mr. Kevin! I want to become a handyman!”

  “Let me in! Come on, just give me a chance!”

  The line at Jenny’s, the empty smithy, the crowd around Kevin—it all pointed to the same thing. The town was full of players who knew how he’d unlocked his class and came hoping to do the same.

  What baffled Jack was that they knew he’d become a handyman, but didn’t seem to grasp that no rare quest was ever the same. The one he’d triggered had already been reshaped. Who knew how the next handyman would come to be?

  Great. How am I supposed to get to Mr. Kevin now?

  He had to figure out a way. But first, he needed to make a call.

  He took the long way around the crowd, heading out of town to a grassy hill. There, under the shade of a tree, he finally found some quiet.

  Jack wiped his clammy palms on his pants and took a steadying breath.

  Then he called Holly.