Date: October 24, 1951

  Crouched behind a narrow chimney, Whiskey watched as grim-faced guards searched the Studebaker. They worked with practiced efficiency, alternating between mundane tools and arcane scanners, unfazed by the shouts and insults hurled by the car’s former occupants.

  “Whoever said crime doesn’t pay obviously never tried selling drugs,” Passenger remarked, as Whiskey observed the two women—both dressed in scandalously revealing outfits—continuing their tirade. “Are you sure you don’t want to consider a career change? The life of crime obviously has its perks.”

  A smirk tugged at the corner of Whiskey’s lips as he shifted his weight, a sharp cramp jolting through his leg before his Gift of Integrity smoothed it away.

  “What? And miss all this?”

  He leaned forward, eyes fixed on the busy guards below, and let his thoughts drift back to earlier that evening.

  After Felix returned from his call—looking weary but confident he’d secured a meeting with George—Whiskey had driven straight to Isaiah’s new residence in Hunter’s Point.

  He’d expected something modest. A house. Maybe a secured apartment complex.

  What he found was a fortress.

  Ten-foot-high warded concrete walls ringed an entire hilltop, with a single entry point and a fortified gate manned by sharp-eyed guards. The place bristled with defenses—arcane and mundane alike.

  Security like that wasn’t cheap. Or casual.

  No one goes to this kind of trouble unless they were hiding something valuable.

  Or dangerous.

  Which left one question:

  What was Isaiah protecting?

  He trusted Felix’s instincts. If he believed Isaiah wouldn’t betray family without good reason, that counted for something. But trustworthiness was relative. Anyone pushing drugs through disillusioned kids wasn’t exactly a paragon of loyalty.

  And yet, as Whiskey studied the case file, the facts refused to line up.

  Hallie and the other victim, Jordan Bryant, were last seen leaving The Choice, a dive bar in the Tenderloin. The anonymous caller led police to the grisly crime scene, but one detail stuck with him:

  The attackers had chased the victims down, then fled on motorcycles.

  Something about that didn’t sit right.

  Mainly, the Saints were city boys. Motorcycles weren’t unheard of, but they weren’t common either. That they’d suddenly adopted them for ambush tactics felt…off.

  “Because the Saints aren’t bikers doesn’t mean they don’t know how to ride, Kinichiro,” Passenger pointed out. “And if Isaiah didn’t take Hallie, why isn’t he doing more to find her?

  “The obvious answer: he knows where she is.”

  “If the goal was to provoke George,” Whiskey thought as he watched the guards give the all-clear, “why go to such extremes with Bryant? Why not leave him alive to spread the word?”

  The women climbed back into the car. As soon as the heavy gates opened, they sped through, shouting as they disappeared up the winding private road toward the Mid-Century Modern mansion perched on the hill.

  As the gates swung shut, a Blazeon delivery truck rolled forward to take their place.

  Whiskey watched, confirming the guards’ pattern before retreating deeper into cover. He shifted to a more comfortable position, settling in as the last light of dusk gave way to full night.

  “Maybe Bryant fought back,” Passenger suggested. “Isaiah, or whoever he hired, might not’ve had a choice. Saints are voodoo workers, right? And voodoo’s not exactly known for surgical precision. Wouldn’t be the first time one of them lost control and made a mess.”

  Whiskey inhaled, considering, then exhaled through his nose.

  “I guess we’ll see.”

  Passenger made an impatient sound.

  “Yes, yes, due process, gather evidence, innocent until proven guilty, blah blah blah,” it grumbled. “It’s dark enough now. Let’s get this show on the road, shall we?”

  A grin tugged at Whiskey’s lips.

  “Why not?”

  Moving silently, he eased from his hiding spot and began his descent, melting into the deepening shadows.

  He slipped into a copse of trees, narrowing his eyes on the chosen entry point—a treacherous section of wall built into the gravelly hillside. Loose rocks, a steep incline, and an eighteen-foot rise studded with magical wards made it look damn near impossible.

  Whiskey’s grin turned razor sharp.

  “Okay, Passenger.” He said, triggering Vigilance. “How’s it look?”

  The darkness exploded into crisp detail. Every sight, sound, and scent surged to near-superhuman clarity. For most, the sensory flood would’ve been crippling.

  But Vigilance didn’t just heighten Whiskey’s senses. It gave him absolute control over them.

  He filtered out the irrelevant, narrowing his focus to the landscape ahead. The surge of anima triggered a dull throb behind his eyes, but he barely noticed it.

  “Eighteen wards,” Passenger confirmed. “Same as this afternoon.”

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  “You’re sure?”

  Passenger pulsed the mental equivalent of a haughty sniff. “Of course.”

  Whiskey studied the space ahead. Most people wouldn’t notice the faint electric tang of an offensive ward, but with Vigilance, the hidden glyphs lit up like beacons.

  Satisfied, he expanded his awareness beyond the wall.

  Passenger made a thoughtful sound. “Right…now where is…?” A faint crunch of boots on gravel reached Whiskey’s ears. “—ah, right on time.”

  Then came the soft, rhythmic sound of sniffing.

  Whiskey’s jaw tightened.

  “Is that…?”

  “A dog. A big one, by the sound of it,” Passenger replied. “They must bring it out at night—or you missed it. Likely because you never—”

  “Quiet,” Whiskey interrupted, a slow prickle of sweat creeping down his spine as he realized where he was.

  “I’m upwind.”

  Heart pounding, Whiskey scanned the area, searching for something, anything he could use to cover his scent. If the dog noticed him and started barking, his entire day of planning would go up in smoke.

  But there was nothing.

  He tensed, muscles coiling, ready to bolt as the patrol drew closer. The dog paused almost directly on the other side of the wall from his hiding spot.

  It sniffed once.

  Twice.

  Then—with a soft snort—it moved on.

  Whiskey released his breath in a quiet whoosh, but he didn’t relax.

  “How?” he thought. “As close as we were, it should’ve smelled me.”

  Passenger paused, then said, “Your wrist.”

  Whiskey glanced down. A faint, prickly warmth tingled near his hand. Jasmine’s beaded bracelet shimmered in the dark, its glow almost imperceptible. A slow smile crept onto his face.

  “I’ll have to thank Jasmine.”

  “Please don’t,” Passenger said with a sigh. “She’s already insufferable enough.”

  Satisfied the patrol had moved on, Whiskey slipped from his perch and moved into position. He took a breath. Double-checked the ward placement. Then, like a sprinter in the blocks, he leaned forward and triggered Ambition.

  Anima surged. Strength flooded his limbs, and he took off.

  The incline and loose footing barely registered. As a boy, he’d driven the monks mad, sprinting across the monastery ponds, leaping from lily pad to lily pad before they could sink.

  Now, that same precision guided every step. Each footfall fluid, deliberate, calculated to avoid the deadly obstacle course of wards.

  As he neared the wall, Whiskey leaned in, channeling his momentum into a near-vertical sprint. Halfway up, he launched himself. For a breathless moment, he hung in the air. Then—slap—his hands hit the wall’s edge, fingers locking tight with enhanced strength.

  But instead of pulling up, he froze as a faint hum vibrated through his fingertips—destructive energy licking at his skin in soft, stinging sparks.

  He’d missed a ward.

  By a centimeter.

  “Huh,” Passenger said, as if reading about something only mildly interesting. “Looks like you missed one.”

  Whiskey scowled, adjusting his weight to shift away from the glyph. With Ambition, his magically reinforced strength made the maneuver uncomfortable, but manageable.

  “Me?” he demanded.

  “Hey, you keep saying it,” Passenger said. “You’re the one at the wheel. I’m just along for the ride.”

  With a quiet grunt, Whiskey made sure he was clear, then vaulted over the edge, landing on the leaf-covered ground with silent, feline grace.

  His eyes, gleaming like polished amethysts, swept the little grove.

  He released Ambition and braced for the whiplash.

  As humanity learned during the Great Revelation, every living thing possessed anima, and with it the potential to wield magic.

  Master Nintai, who had trained Whiskey and overseen the development of his Gifts, taught him to treat anima like a muscle. Infrequent use or overuse led to strain, and if the strain was bad enough, the damage could be catastrophic.

  Thaumaturgic whiplash was that overstrain made manifest.

  Depending on the user’s stamina and experience, it could cause anything from mild fatigue to total collapse. In severe cases, it could induce comas. Even death.

  Like any muscle, diligent conditioning reduced the risk while improving performance.

  What separated most humans from Mythics wasn’t raw power. It was understanding. Training. Discipline.

  As Nintai always said, improvement took time and the will to pursue it.

  Nearly six decades of training and discipline gave Whiskey a higher threshold than most.

  Even so, he was panting like he’d sprinted a hundred yards, and he fought to steady his breath as he scanned the area.

  He’d chosen a section of wall tucked behind dense clusters of California buckeyes, blue gum eucalyptus, and Monterey cypress that formed a man-made forest stretching toward the main house. Decorative crystal-powered lights flickered in and out, casting shifting shadows like a restless dream.

  “At least I was right about one thing,” he thought. “The area’s lightly patrolled.”

  “Congratulations, Kinichiro,” Passenger said. “You are officially halfway to being right as often as a broken clock.”

  Whiskey let a smile tug at his lips as he exhaled and slipped deeper into the trees.

  The grove thinned, revealing a manicured lawn spotted with brown grass and wilted plants.

  Massive floodlights flooded the yard in harsh white, throwing long, stark shadows and leaving little to chance. Two guards patrolled near a third stationed at the end of the long driveway.

  Whiskey was about to shift position when Passenger hissed.

  “Wait!”

  He froze.

  “What?”

  “Listen. Do you hear that?”

  Frowning, Whiskey expanded his senses, letting Vigilance stretch outward. He caught only the usual ambient hum of rustling leaves and thrumming of power lines, punctuated by the occasional distant engine, but beyond that…

  “I don’t hear anything.”

  “Exactly,” Passenger said. “Even in a place like this, there should be something—bugs, birds, anything. But listen…nothing.”

  A flicker of unease crept up Whiskey’s spine. He reached for a nearby branch and snapped it.

  The wood crumbled to ash in his fingers.

  “This whole place is…”

  “Dead,” Passenger finished.

  A shiver ran down his back.

  “Has it been Blighted?”

  “No idea. We’d need to study it further before—”

  Passenger cut itself off.

  “No time. Behind you.”

  Whiskey strained his hearing and caught it.

  Boots on gravel. Slow. Methodical. And sniffing.

  The dog.

  “They’re coming up the path you came from,” Passenger warned. “Bracelet or no, if they get close, you’ll be spotted.”

  Whiskey's mind raced as he scanned the grounds. His gaze locked on the house—an elegant fusion of glass and steel. Through its transparent walls, he spotted a long first-floor hallway with private rooms branching off. But it was the darkened second-floor balcony that caught his eye.

  The master suite.

  Behind him, footsteps closed in.

  Then the low grumble of a crystal-powered engine cut through the air. The Blazeon truck rumbled up the drive, and the guard turned, leaning into the open window.

  Now.

  Whiskey didn’t hesitate. He triggered Ambition and bolted. He became a fleeting shadow, a ghost slipping through patches of darkness.

  Halfway across the lawn, the guard began to turn back.

  “Faster, Kinichiro!”

  Whiskey pushed Ambition harder, diving into the moment. His presence blurred to a whisper against the night.

  A flicker of movement caught his eye. The patrol emerged from the spot he’d just vacated, the dog in tow. But instead of scanning the quiet lawn, the guard by the truck turned to speak with the one handling the dog.

  Giving Whiskey enough time to finish his sprint.

  He reached the house and leapt onto a metal frame, scaling it like a ladder. Every movement was precise, controlled. With a last burst, he hauled himself over the balcony railing and vanished into the shadows.

  Made it.

  As a loose pebble, nudged by his boot, tumbled from the edge.

  His breath caught as he watched it fall, wincing at the soft taps it made before settling on the cement below.

  He crouched low, every muscle tight, teeth clenched against the lingering whiplash. Still. Silent.

  Below, the dog’s ears snapped up. It turned toward the balcony, nostrils flaring. Its gaze locked on the railing.

  Whiskey’s heart pounded. A low growl rumbled in the dog’s throat.

  Then…

  “Come on,” the guard muttered, tugging the leash. Oblivious.

  The dog hesitated…then followed.

  Only after they disappeared down the path did Whiskey exhale.

  Relief pulsed through him as the last of the whiplash bled away.

  “Great,” Passenger said. “All that’s left is getting inside, finding Isaiah, and convincing him to talk about the daughter he probably abducted.”

  Whiskey’s amethyst eyes gleamed in the dark.

  “Yeah. Simple.”

  by BooksByMandiMay

  THE LAST TECHNOMANCER

  One satisfying career crisis, one planet abduction, and one very opinionated robot later, Maura Everhart has thirty days to survive a multiverse tutorial that wants her dead.

  Maura Everhart was having a bad Wednesday. Keys down a storm drain, a failing game shop, and a locksmith who charged like a surgeon. Then the sky split open, and every adult on Earth was yanked into a tutorial dimension for 30-days alongside initiates from 61 other planets.

  Choose a class. Level up. Don't die. Simple enough. Right?

  Except Maura chose Technomancer, an ancient class so rare the multiverse considered it extinct. Before vanishing the only other Technomancer reshaped the entire systems of reality. Now cosmic powers are watching, and not all of them want to see another one rise.

  Armed with an energy sword she barely knows how to swing, a mechanical robot companion with more attitude than a house cat on a Monday, and an INT stat that's growing faster than her ability to stay out of trouble, Maura has to do more than survive. She has to build. Innovate. Forge alliances with species she didn't know existed yesterday. And figure out why powerful beings are breaking the rules of the tutorial just to get close to her.

  In a world where death is permanent, magic is real, and morals are a thing of the past, the only thing more dangerous than the monsters in the forest is the secret Maura carries: she's not just a player in this game. She might be the reason it exists.

  What to expect:

  - LitRPG progression with stats, skills, levels, and loot

  - Crafting and innovation as core strengths, not just combat

  - Found family forged under pressure

  - Morally complex encounters where enemies aren't always evil and allies aren't always safe

  - A sarcastic, self-aware protagonist who references games and pop culture while trying not to die

  - Multiple POVs that expand the world beyond the main character

  - A slow-burn mystery about extinct classes, cosmic politics, and a multiverse with secrets

  Updates every Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday. First-person POV. Progression fantasy with heart, humor, and the occasional existential crisis.