“It was wild!” Maeve pulled her braid from behind her back and started fussing with the end. “He shot out of the water, all glowing and wet, and he had this intense look on his face. Then he just started skewering those vicious little guttergrub killers and throwing them at Clover so she could pop them like balloons.”

  Greg had crashed from the adrenaline dump and high volatility on the way out of the sewers. At which point, Maeve had taken the liberty to throw him over her shoulders like he wasn’t two feet taller than her and carry him all the way to Brannoc’s. Still feeling a little woozy, he let Maeve go on and on at length about his apparent brush with divinity.

  “You pushed yourself too hard. You need to manage your resources better.” Brannoc shifted his eyes to focus on him without moving his head. “Not exactly inspiring confidence if you almost blooded on your first trip out.”

  “Mmm.” Greg bobbed his head up and down slightly, still too lightheaded to risk sitting up form where he’d sunk into the couch. “You know what would help with that? A wizened old bastard that could teach me.” Maeve snorted but quickly clasped two hands over her mouth when Brannoc showed absolutely no amusement.

  “I’m not a trainer, son.” His gravely voice cracked after taking the time to pack his pipe and grasp it between his teeth.

  “Aren’t you training those two teenagers?” Greg asked. “What were their names?” He glanced over at Maeve.

  “Clover and Ricard.”

  “Right, them.”

  Brannoc blew smoke from his nose before speaking again. “I’m not training them. I employ them, and occasionally give them advice.”

  “A regular Mr. Fucking Miyagi.” Greg shrugged. “You can’t do the same thing for me?”

  “Who is Mr. Miyagi?” Maeve whispered to him.

  “Old guy from a story,” Greg said. “Teaches this kid martial arts by making him do chores.”

  Brannoc shook his head. “You’re a baby. I don’t change diapers, kid.”

  Greg lifted from his seated position, head swimming for a moment, but he planted his hands on either side of him to stabilize. Just before he was about to snap back at the elf, a system message popped up.

  [Fragment Surge—Error]

  “I don’t need you to change my diapers, Warden. I need a teacher.

  [Persona Suppressed]

  Greg’s brows furrowed, and he glanced around his UI. No new notifications, nothing blinking. It wanted him to say this? “I don’t need you to change my diapers, Warden. I need a teacher.”

  The hard expression welded to the elf’s face cracked. His eyebrows rose into thick high arches, firelight catching the blood-red pools. The pipe fell from his lips, barely scooped up by his deft, thick fingers before it hit the ground.

  He turned slowly toward Greg.

  “What did you just say to me?”

  Greg swallowed. “I don’t need someone to change my diapers,” he said, this time with much less bravado.

  An uncomfortable silence filled the room. Brannoc leaned forward to stare at him from beneath heavy black eyebrows. The elder man reached out, grabbing his chin and looking deep into his eyes. Searching for something.

  Maeve let out a tiny squeak when he let go. “Sorry. Sorry. We were having a moment. Should I go?” She stood and gathered the engine parts up. “I’m gonna go.”

  “Sit,” Brannoc said flatly.

  “Yes, sir.” She plopped right back down, knocking parts onto the lush carpet.

  Brannoc continued to study him as he eased back into his chair, pipe going back between his lips. His UI had known just the thing to stop the stubborn man in his tracks. Was this some extension of his charisma stat? Maybe scanning him and learning the title gave him some advantage he couldn’t figure out?

  “You’ll be here every day. Quarter to five. No exceptions. You do what I say, when I say it, or you’re done.” Brannoc looked away from him finally. “You’ll find your own accommodations. Not staying with me.”

  “You can stay with me. Hydel won’t be back anytime soon.” Maeve grinned and clapped her hands together.

  “So…you’re going to teach me?” Greg asked.

  Brannoc gave a little nod. “Don’t make me regret it.”

  ###

  A week of Brannoc’s training had left Greg bruised, exhausted, and, according to the elf, only marginally less likely to get himself killed. His teaching method primarily consisted of pointing out everything Greg was doing wrong, occasionally demonstrating proper technique, and smoking his pipe while Greg tried not to get crushed by Clover’s hammer or lit on fire by Ricard.

  Clover, Ricard, and Maeve had been more helpful if only that they actually corrected what he was doing wrong in real time, rather than grunting at him every thirty seconds. It wasn’t pretty, but he thought he was getting the hang of it. Still miles behind the teens that had been doing this since they were children…but getting the hang of it.

  The only problem he was running into with the training is it was giving him tangible experience. He was learning, certainly. Footwork, tactics, hell, he even started learning to fight with his left hand, but none of it was making his numbers go up. When he’d brought it up to Brannoc he’d said that increasing power on a shitty foundation was a good way to get him killed. Which, frustratingly, made sense enough to shut down any further badgering.

  He hadn’t gotten comfortable enough with Maeve, Clover, or Ricard to ask if he could scan them, but Brannoc had provided a little insight into that as well. He couldn’t see the stats, but he implied he was around seven or eight times as strong as a peak non-Gifted person. So, at five strength, he was basically as average as they came.

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Greg woke earlier than normal the next morning. Maeve had offered him the currently vacant room, but Greg had declined, preferring the couch to encroaching on someone’s private area. He reached out and tapped the base of the lamp on the side table and pulled up his inventory. After staring at the journal for days, he finally knew what he was going to do with it.

  Dear James,

  I don’t know why I’m writing this. You’ll never read it. There’s not any interdimensional post service I’m aware of, and even if there was, pretty sure postage would be nuts.

  I’m not dead! Good to know, right? I walked into a bathroom and disappeared. At least I hope that’s what happened on your end, I’m honestly not super clear. I was apparently ripped through galaxies to another planet where my body was destroyed and rebuilt. Good news is my knee works again, bad news is…well, that’s obvious, I guess. Oh, I guess context is important with those. There were two beings in the bathroom where I disappeared. Like an angel and a demon. They performed some kind of ritual, stabbed me, now I’m here.

  You’d want the medical details. The scars on my shoulders are pretty wild. One side the tissue was burnt, and the other was frostbitten. Healed in such a way that suggests instantaneous cell regeneration. The burns should have left widespread scarring, even skin tightening, but instead I have these perfectly symmetrical handprints. The divine one radiates cold, demonic one is warm to the touch.

  My body is different. Stronger than I was. Not by a lot, probably comparable to when I was playing ball in college, but the recovery is insane. I broke both my hands a week ago. Healed completely in a few hours.

  I killed someone. At least…it used to be someone. It’s called a Frost Kissed. Apparently, there is some magical drug that transforms people into this weird zombie—ghoul kinda creature that only Gifted can see. Oh, I’m one of those now. Should see my eyeballs. Fucking wild. Anyway, I can’t stop thinking about this thing. Not the killing, I had to. It was survival. If I didn’t kill it, it was going to kill me. I can’t stop thinking it used to be a person. Somewhere, somebody out there is wondering where he went. If he’s okay…

  There is so much I want to tell you about this place. They’ve got fucking worms that filter their sewage into drinkable water. There are people are that aren’t human. The birds tell time. It’s been…insane.

  I don’t know what I’m doing here, James. I don’t know why I was chosen or what I’m supposed to accomplish. There is something bigger happening. Some kind of weird cosmic game between gods and demons, and I’m apparently a piece on the board.

  My intelligence stat is four. I’m not equipped for cosmic chess. I’m sure you’d be much better at this…

  I think the real reason I’m writing this is to tell you that I miss you. I love you. I’m sure there is some psychological reason for writing my brother when I know he’ll never read it, but go fuck yourself, alright?

  Your disaster of a brother,

  Greg

  Greg read over the unsendable letter one more time before sliding the journal into his inventory space. His chest felt tight, yet lighter somehow. Like something heavy was starting to lift from it. He glanced up as Maeve’s door opened and she shimmied out, rubbing half-lidded eyes.

  “Coffee?”

  “Yes, please.” Greg said, getting to his feet to follow as he pondered what his brother would actually think. Once upon a time, James had looked up to him. He’d been his hero, the first grade report he’d hung up on his wall was more physical evidence than he’d ever need. Now here he was actually training to fight monsters while in another dimension everyone he loved thought he was dead…or worse, just gone.

  ###

  Another eight days passed. Greg had been meeting Brannoc in his backyard with Clover and Ricard at fifteen minutes to five A.M. It had left him with no time to explore the city like he’d been wanting to, but the training was more important considering things out there were apparently actively trying to kill him. Today, however, when he walked through the side gate to get into Brannoc’s backyard, he found it empty. No teens warming up in the corner near the striking dummies. No old elf sitting on his patio smoking his pipe. Empty.

  He looked up. While completely obscured by the fog cloud, there were still signs in the sky he’d noticed to tell roughly where the sun was. The telltale signs of thinning to the east hadn’t happened yet, so he wasn’t late. Greg walked over and tested the back door handle, only to find it locked.

  “Huh…” Greg scratched at the back of his neck, finally taking a seat on a crossbeam they’d been using to train his balance. It wasn’t long before Brannoc stepped outside, but he was not in his normal casual garb.

  “You’re here. Good.” He said, straightening the collar on his fur-lined duster. Beneath he wore a flowing shirt, buttoned only about halfway up, showing off a sliver of his ridiculously sculpted torso. Finished off with a set of slacks and freshly polished boots, it was clear they were not going to be training today.

  “Did I miss something?” Greg asked, looking down at the too long pants and basic cotton shirt he was wearing.

  “No,” Brannoc said simply. He strode to the shed in the corner of the yard and opened both doors. A moment later he came out again, this time on a filthy circular disc that was probably white at some point and floated about six inches off the ground. “Get on.”

  Greg swallowed slightly, but did as he was told. It wasn’t a spacious disc, but there was enough room for them both to stand with about a foot between them. When Brannoc leaned forward and the disc zoomed over the back fence, that space was immediately closed as Greg wrapped his arms around the larger man’s waist to keep from falling.

  His teacher didn’t try to remove him, and eventually Greg was able to let go and stand on his own. The disc flew through the streets at the speed of a car, but there was almost no air friction despite not having a windscreen. Neither of them said a word as they approached the inconceivably high walls of Rhobair, and eventually a heavy closed gate.

  “Mr. Stroud.” A guard wearing a forest green cape and fitted leathers bowed to Brannoc. “Heading out?”

  Brannoc grunted his confirmation without stepping off the silent floating disc. “Be back in a few hours.”

  “Of course, sir.” The guard waved his hand in a large circle. “Open the gate!”

  Metal grinding on metal sounded as the wrought iron rose into the wall. Once it was open enough for them to go through, Brannoc gave the guard a nod and zipped out.

  For the first time since he’d woken up on Etheon, Greg saw the sun just cresting over a far off mountaintop. He quickly looked back as they whipped away from the city walls and found that the ever present fog cloud stopped cold outside of them. He’d wrongly assumed it was some kind of weather quirk of this world. Apparently, it was a part of the city which he would need to get information on at some point.

  The landscape outside the city was a bit surprising. He knew Rhobair was a seaside city, but he did not know it was so close to dense forest. As they rode across the relatively flat terrain away from the ocean, to his right a wall of trees formed and seemed to stretch on up the far-off mountain. Stumps of felled trees filled the couple of miles between city walls and treeline.

  Brannoc slowed the disc after about ten minutes. In that time, they’d inched closer to the forest, but had gotten far enough away from the city that whatever effort was being taken to keep the forest away from the walls had stopped and trees started to trickle closer. He stepped off the floating craft and walked directly toward a pine with a thick twisted trunk.

  Greg followed, keeping a respectful distance. His teacher had pulled a flask from his pocket and took a deep swig from it, then poured some at the base of the tree. He had an idea where he was, and confirmation came as he got closer. Just above a dead circle of grass where Brannoc had probably poor countless flasks, was a carving in the trunk.

  Killian Grimjaw 31995-32205

  Brannoc circled the tree silently, Greg following behind him at a respectful distance. He stopped, got down on his hands and knees and pressed his face to the lush grass at its base. Above his head, another carving.

  Isabella Herman-Stroud 31950-32205

  Greg felt a lump form in his throat. Brannoc didn’t budge from his spot for a long time except the occasional jerk from what he assumed were silent sobs. He still wasn’t sure why he’d brought him here, but seeing him silently break at the gravesite left Greg on the verge of falling apart himself. That feeling, though, quickly vanished beneath a wave of guilt. This man, whose range of emotion extended from complacency to apathy, made the decision to take him out here where he knew he would break down with grief.

  Autumn was right.

  He could never imagine putting himself in a situation like this.

  Brannoc stood up slowly, wiping his face on the leather sleeves of his duster, and stepped toward him to offer what remained of the flask. Greg gladly drank.

  “These two graves are all that’s left of my party.” Brannoc said after a long silence. “I brought you out here to show you that no matter how good you are, how strong you are, how smart you are, you can and will die. The question is, what are you going to do with the time you have before that happens?”