Ashe’s eyelids felt like they were made of lead, held up by fraying string. His legs shuffled through the sand, knife in one hand, walking stick in the other.

  He’d mostly given up using the walking stick, it took too much energy. It now dragged behind him, dead weight. He was relying on his pain-precognition to warn him. If it didn’t, he was slightly screwed.

  It had its own problems—his toes kept catching on low sand dunes, sending him stumbling forward until he jabbed his walking stick down to steady himself.

  The heat slowly eased off his skin, his sweat cooling instead of pouring. Night was coming. He needed to find a way out of this place soon. His parents would be home eventually. The thought of their worry knotted his stomach, but it still didn’t feel like the right time to tell them. Not yet. He needed to be stronger first, needed a plan.

  A dull ache bloomed in his head and shot outward like cracks in glass.

  He ducked and drove the knife up in one motion. The blade hit something soft. Warm guts spilled out and splattered across his face.

  On any other day, he would’ve freaked out.

  Today he just wiped his cheek with the back of his hand and sighed. The iron reek of blood soaked his clothes, mixing with the sour tang of sweat. He knew he had to smell disgusting.

  Right now, he didn’t really care.

  As he trudged on, the sand under his feet began to change. The dry, coarse heat of the last few hours softened into something else, damp, lush soil that sucked at his shoes. With each step he sank a little deeper until cool water rose to his knees, rushing around his legs like a river.

  Then his stomach lurched. The world twisted, the water vanished, and a voice boomed around him:

  “Portal cleared. One point gained.”

  Another F-rank, he thought dully.

  He wanted to curse at someone, anyone, but he was too exhausted. The smells and bustle of the city crashed into him like a train, exhaust, food, voices, cars.

  He was back. The real world. The alley.

  He could not be seen like this.

  What little adrenaline he had left surged. For a moment the fatigue loosened its grip. He stumbled forward, yanking his hoodie on and dragging the hood over his head. His clothes were wet and sticky; the fabric snagged on his skin a few times before he forced it down.

  Whispers drifted from deeper in the alley as he flicked his cane out and found his bearings. He retraced his route—out of the alley, onto the main street, then toward home.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  People muttered as he passed, voices low and worried, clearly wondering what had happened to him.

  As he fumbled with the key, his neighbor’s voice floated over. “You got it?”

  Ashe knew the guy was just trying to be nice, but irritation flared anyway. “Yes,” he snapped.

  He pushed the door open and shut it quickly behind him. For a moment he just stood there in the hall, listening—no footsteps, no voices. His parents were still out.

  He locked the door, then hurried inside. Clothes came off in a messy trail as he felt his way to the laundry room. He shoved everything into the washing machine, then froze at the sharp clang of metal on metal.

  Frowning, he dug through the bundle until his fingers closed around something small and round. A coin, by the feel of it, engraved with a raised head or crest. Maybe he’d forgotten to empty his pockets before he left…but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d even used cash.

  For now, it didn’t matter.

  He set the coin aside and went back to loading the machine. His mom would probably comment on the random laundry later, but no more than usual.

  He poured in detergent, paused, sniffed himself, then added more. He didn’t stop until he was sure the blood-and-sweat stench would be buried under a wall of sharp lemon.

  The machine started with a low grumble.

  Naked, coin in hand, he padded up the stairs. Halfway up, pain detonated in his skull. His head throbbed with every step, slow and hollow, like someone was knocking from the inside.

  He went straight to the bathroom, found the aspirin bottle by touch, shook two into his palm and swallowed them with a mouthful of water. Then he turned on the bath. He needed to scrub the smell off of himself, even if every cell in his body wanted to collapse into bed instead.

  He detoured to his room, grabbed his phone, and came back. If he was going to soak, he might as well be productive. As the tub filled with warm water, he started the day’s WarFronts episode and eased himself in.

  He scrubbed hard. Too hard. His skin turned rough and hypersensitive, angry and red. Eventually he let the sponge drop and reached for the coin on the edge of the tub instead, rolling it between his fingers. One side was a face in raised relief. The other had words, but the letters were too small for him to trace clearly under the slick of soap.

  The podcast washed over him in the background.

  “…an unclaimed Guildcoin was found yesterday in Hampton, Australia…”

  He froze. His brow knotted; his throat went tight.

  Fewster Road was near where he lived.

  He squeezed the coin harder, until he felt the blood stop flowing through his fingers. He traced the letters again, slower this time.

  They clicked into place like the last piece of a puzzle.

  On the back, it read: “Leanor G. Coin.”

  Forums flooded with conspiracy theories about who “Leanor” was. But the stamped name appeared on each and every coin, like a mark of its owner.

  Then he remembered the first portal—the chaos, the panic, stumbling back into the street in nothing but his underwear. The coin must’ve appeared then, dropped to the ground, its tiny clink lost under the roar of his own heartbeat.

  If this was what F-rank portals were like, he could only imagine, and dread, what the higher ranks held. He sat there in the cooling water, thumb running over the coin’s rough edge, wondering what came next.

  Guildcoins were a free pass into the Jumper system: front-of-the-line access, first crack at new portals, real teammates, real support.

  But it also meant going official. It meant forms, records.

  It meant telling his parents.

  Like the coin in his hand, the choice was two-sided. Pros and cons spun in his head until he felt dizzy. For now, he decided, nothing had to change. He’d keep pushing on his own, get a little stronger, learn a little more before he joined a guild.

  Right now, he felt confident.