The tavern was run by a boisterous dalith barkeeper named Tekrin, who seemed particularly pleased to see Arther. From what Sam was able to gather, they used to play cards back in the day, and Arther was notoriously bad at it. Tekrin seemed keen to get him back at the table, and Sam wondered how much money he’d lost over the years.

  Their host got them seated at a human-sized table near the fire, giving Sam an excuse to hang up and dry his borrowed—and sopping wet—cloak. The scents that wafted from the kitchen were unlike any Sam had ever experienced, and they gave the rustic tavern a truly exotic air.

  The low ceilings made it feel more like a cave than a restaurant, but Sam figured it must be more comfortable for the staff. All the dalith he’d seen had barely reached his waist, but other than their similar stocky builds, they were as varied as humans in their appearance. The metal tattoos he’d seen at the opening ceremony seemed to be fairly common, with different types of metal being used in place of ink. He wondered how the process was done and how they were able to keep the metal so malleable.

  Arther ordered for them both, and it wasn't long before a server brought them two heaping plates of food. “When in doubt, just order the special,” Arther said with a grin, tucking into his plate with gusto.

  Sam picked up a set of chopsticks and followed suit, grabbing a chunk of meat lathered in a thick, creamy sauce. The taste was not too dissimilar to curry, the long-grain rice soaking up the rich broth. The unknown meat was incredibly tender, and he soon found himself wondering if it would be rude to ask Arther to order him seconds.

  “What kind of meat is this?” He asked between bites, glad that the server had also left them a set of napkins.

  “Elgr,” Arther grunted. “Basically a big, fuzzy deer. A few farms in the valley north of town domesticated some a few thousand years back. The wild ones—the elgror, now those you have to watch out for. They can grow upwards of twenty hands, antlers larger than a man. Vicious when defending their territory.”

  Sam paused, a roasted chunk halfway to his mouth. “And I assume I'm going to be heading into their territory?”

  “Oh, aye, but not for a few weeks yet. They live further up in the hills and tend to favour the rockier pine forests. Not worth much by way of spira, but one of these can keep you fed for a month. You'll want to consider adding a few of them to the rotation as you make your rounds. You can also come back and sell the corpses here, Tekrin will pay good money for elgror meat.”

  “Huh, so you're saying I'll get spira when I kill it, and then I can get even more by coming back to town and selling the components?”

  “Exhacktully,” Arther said through a mouthful of food. “Though generally the more spira you get for a kill, the less valuable the corpse. The toughest foes tend to be sapient, or close to it. Most folks have a tougher time utilizing materials that come from things that can think. There are exceptions, of course. Scales from a Cliff Adder, for example. Tougher n’ steel, and ten times harder to work with. Make for great armour though, if you can find someone who can work with it.”

  Sam took the bait, “And I suppose you can?”

  “Not my favourite material, but yes, I can. It's temperamental as all hell, and bloody hard to clean. I wouldn’t worry about it, though. I wouldn't have you fight one of those unless you had absolutely no choice. They’re vicious and cunning, and you never want to face one alone.”

  Sam leaned forward, eager to learn more about the kinds of monsters he’d be fighting. “Why’s that?”

  “Hypnosis. Powerful magic that can disable most lone warriors. Combine that with the venom, and the fact that they're twenty paces long and weigh as much as a house. Not exactly the easiest monsters to fight. The larger ones are considered [Epic] tier, and are only taken on by combining a few smaller parties together.”

  “Is that common? I figured most groups would be more focused on killing each other.”

  The Warden nodded thoughtfully, taking a sip from an alehorn he’d grabbed off a passing tray. “That is generally true, but alliances do happen, usually when one party gets a quest to kill a Raid Boss. They're able to add up to three other parties to the quest, and there is no penalty for splitting the spira. If you ever get a chance to join a Raid, you should. The gear and rewards are almost always worth it.”

  Sam furrowed his brow, the cynic in him running through the various scenarios. “What's to stop them stabbing you in the back once it's all over? I imagine the alliance breaks once the quest is complete.”

  Arther gave an approving nod, “We’ll make a proper Warrior of you yet. Yes, there is certainly a risk; however, there is a ten-hour grace period once the quest completes. You can still kill each other without penalty, but you don't gain any spira for it either. What's more common is a group hunting down a former ally after that window has closed, using the knowledge gained on the Raid to take them out.”

  “Well, that's just scummy,” Sam replied, waving down a server for a drink of his own.

  “Honour is an odd thing in the Rings. Some people live by it, but more die by it. Most start out with noble intentions, but at the end of the day, it's you or them. No one can make the decision for you or tell you when it's time. But any line you think you've drawn, just know—it doesn't exist.”

  The words were casual, conversational, but they echoed through Sam’s mind like a gong. The fears he’d pushed down since the opening ceremony, that had been rekindled with his fight in the training ring, sprang to life once again. The knowledge that no matter how hard he tried, at some point, in order to reach the summit, he was going to have to kill people.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  The conversation settled into a stiff silence, with both men focused on their plates. Sam almost choked on his drink—which turned out to be a watered-down breakfast beer—and instead asked the server to bring him some water. Beer with breakfast, it turned out, was not something he was going to get used to.

  When his plate was clear, he settled back in his chair, getting a good look at the diners and staff. The restaurant was still fairly empty, but patrons came and went, most looking like they were getting off night jobs, with heavy bags under their eyes.

  “Why is it that so many of you work? Aren’t you Champions of the Rings? I thought there would be more lounging in palaces, and less working the night shift.”

  Arther frowned, looking around the restaurant with an appraising gaze. “Well, other than Tekrin and me, no one here’s a Champion. They’re all just devotees, doing the best with the afterlife their god has given them.”

  Sam cocked his head, “With their what-now? Afterlife? Are you saying everyone in here is dead?”

  Arther let out an exasperated sigh, “Not getting that tutorial really did a number on yeh. Yes, Sam, everyone here died on their homeworlds and was reborn as a citizen of the Rings. You had to be especially devout to your patron god, or do something of such significance that they offered you a place. Though the higher you climb, you will certainly meet people who did not want to come here. The first ring is meant to be paradise, the higher rings may as well be Hell… Probably are Hell, now that I think about it. Almost certainly where the stories came from.”

  Sam struggled to keep his face composed, “So, let me get this straight. I am currently about to go fight monsters in Heaven, and am fighting to climb my way into Hell?”

  Arther pursed his lips, “Well, it sounds bad when you say it like that. But, technically yes. One version of Heaven and Hell, anyway. They swap the Rings around between the various Spires, so we can’t predict the route each cycle.”

  Sam slowly shook his head, “Sure, why not. Multiple Spires, an afterlife multiverse, the gods are real, and I’m about to go fight killer deer. This feels like a rejected Monty Python skit.”

  “I’m sorry I don’t have a hand grenade for ya.”

  Arther let out a loud belly laugh as Sam’s jaw went slack. “Doesn’t know what an email is, but has seen Holy Grail. I am never going to understand this place.”

  “It does take getting used to,” Arther agreed, flagging down a server and handing them a few coins. “But enough chatter, we still have another stop to make before you get out there. The rain should have stopped, and you need to get moving. You have your lead, but you can’t let it slip. Every moment here is a moment someone else is getting ahead.”

  “Has hustle culture gone too far?” Sam muttered under his breath, following Arther out into the street.

  The stop turned out to be a small counter attached to the rear of a seedy-looking bar, where a surly tzen took orders on a strange, alien tablet. He used a stylus to navigate the various screens, and it wasn’t long before Sam was handed a few large sacks, each containing some basic staples. He stored them in his tafla, pleased to see his small stockpile steadily growing. On top of the gear, he now had just over five kilos of rice, beans, and lentils. He also had a few small packages of jerky, as well as a few pounds of potatoes, and what appeared to be a variation of a carrot.

  Arther turned from the vendor, with whom he was currently haggling, “Now, these will keep in your storage without issue, so don’t worry about refrigeration. Try to avoid taking them out too often, though, and don’t get them wet. They will rot if they start rotting on the outside, so just take them out, grab what you need, and store them again.”

  “What about protein?”

  Arther cocked an eyebrow, “What of it? You’ll be killing monsters, most of whom will be edible. You have a grill and a pot. Stews are always easy, low and slow. Beyond that, meat on a stick never hurt anyone. This isn’t going to be some relaxing vacation, Sam. You're going to be roughin’ it.”

  Sam let out a low sigh and paid the merchant what he owed. He was now down to his last five spira, a sum he vowed never to reach again. He was used to being a poor university student, but even when his net worth was technically negative, he hadn’t been this broke.

  Still, he was more prepared than he’d expected to be. It sure as hell beat fighting monsters with a pointy stick. He had clothing, food, and basic supplies. He had weapons, a shield, and at least a little armour. He couldn't imagine being in a more different position than he'd been even a few days ago; stumbling out of the woods like a lost child.

  He still didn't feel ready, not like he knew he needed to be. His left hand itched, the silvery scar shining in the dim morning light. It was a constant reminder of how close he’d come to death, and now he was about to go face those same monsters again. Them, and worse.

  He found himself leaning against the rough stone of the alley, trying to keep his breathing under control. All around him, people went about their lives—or, afterlives—completely unperturbed. He wanted to scream, to ask how they could be so casual. Thousands of people were marching to their deaths, and they went about their day as if it were normal.

  It is normal, he reminded himself. These people, aliens from a half-dozen worlds, had seen warriors come and go for centuries, maybe millennia. Who was he, if not a speck of dust in a desert of apathy?

  “You alright, Sam?” Arther asked, putting a hand on his shoulder.

  “Y’know, just contemplating my own mortality. I don't suppose the whole dying thing is actually just a scare tactic, and dying here just gets you sent back home?”

  Arther frowned and opened and shut his mouth a few times before replying. “No, it's definitely real. I understand what you're going through, really, I do. But thinking too hard about it won't change anything. You've got a job to do: sixty thousand spira. That's your aim. Shove everything that isn't that from your mind. Get the gold, get the skills, then grind out the last few weeks and get your ass to the next Ring.”

  “Right,” Sam replied, voice devolving to an ungainly squeak. “It's easy. Why am I even worried?”

  “Exactly!” Arther responded, plowing straight through the sarcasm and steering him out into the road. “And besides, you've got something no other warrior has—not on the whole Ring.”

  “An indomitable spirit?” Sam supplied.

  “Bah! No.” He forced down a snort. “Me, obviously.” The laughter slowly faded, and his voice took on an iron edge, “And I’m not fixin’ to lose again.”