Date: 33,480 Third Quarter — Chalice Theocracy - A month ago
"Get up, you idiots. I have been looking for you everywhere."
Rathvoss stood in the doorway. The brutal academy instructor was wearing regular citizen clothes instead of his usual armor. A simple brown tunic. Worn leather boots. A traveling cloak that had seen better days. In his hands, he carried a cloth bag that bulged with supplies.
"You left like you had a train up your ass." He stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. "I looked at every inn in this district. I thought Kurgodan sent killers after you."
Aris was wiping his face, trying to force himself awake. His right shoulder throbbed with pain from holding a knife all night, and his entire body felt like it was made of lead. Fox didn't even bother to get up from his corner.
"We were looking for work, so..."
"Idiot." Rathvoss crossed the room in three strides and shoved the bag into Aris's arms. "You left the academy without any plans, right? Take this. There's dried meat and fruits."
"I... I have a plan." Aris reached into the bag and pulled out an apple. He bit into it greedily, the sweet juice running down his chin. He tossed another to Fox. "I just can't tell you yet."
"If you had endured a little longer, you could have become an official." Rathvoss sat down heavily on the room's single chair, which creaked under his weight. "You could have lived an easy life in this forsaken planet. Plan, pah..."
"Look." Aris swallowed his mouthful and met the instructor's eyes. "If you're not going to bow down to Aeloria, there's no point living in this zealot country."
"Do you have any suggestions?" Rathvoss asked. His voice was different now. Not the harsh bark of an instructor, but something closer to concern.
Aris stood from his bed and sat at the small table across from Rathvoss. "I'm getting there."
"Then let me help you get there faster." Rathvoss leaned forward, lowering his voice. "There's a player-run inn. The owner smuggles goods when we need them. Go to him and give my name. He can put you on a trading caravan and send you to the common city, Parthanon. It was the capital of the game. It's a mixed-race place, much more tolerant than here. You can stay there."
Aris considered this. Parthanon. He had heard of it. The heart of the continent. Where all the surviving races pretended to play nice.
"I can't leave yet." Aris shook his head. "I'm waiting for someone. But the smuggler's intel connections might help me find him."
"Aris, I honestly don't know where this confidence is coming from." Rathvoss's eyes narrowed. "Just because you finished the dungeon alone doesn't make you a shooting star. Remember, our levels are stuck."
"I know. I know. Thanks for the food and the intel, by the way."
"And take this." Rathvoss pulled a coin purse from his belt and set it on the table with a heavy clink. "This is the most I can give. I spent the rest of my wage on the food at the inn."
Aris looked at the purse. Silver coins glinted inside.
"No, no. I can't take this." He waved his hands, pushing the purse back.
"Take it. What do you think the caravan owner will ask from you for safe travel?"
"I... I..."
"Thank you, Mr. Teacher." Fox's voice cut through from his corner. The black fox had finally raised his head. "Aris, take the damn coins. We have nothing."
Aris looked at Fox, then at the purse, then at Rathvoss. The instructor's face was unreadable, but there was something in his eyes. Something that looked almost like hope.
Aris took the coins.
"Don't waste it," Rathvoss said, standing. "And don't get killed."
He left without another word.
---
After Rathvoss departed, Aris and Fox went downstairs for a quick meal. The innkeeper provided bread and cheese at no charge, waving off Aris's attempts to pay.
"Your friend already covered it," he said with a wink.
Then they set off to find the inn Rathvoss had mentioned. Karakol, he had called it. Run by a player in disguise, just like Rathvoss himself.
The establishment was tucked away in a back alley near the harbor district. It looked nothing like the respectable inns in the main streets. The sign above the door was weathered and crooked. The windows were dark. A smell of stale beer and pipe smoke drifted from within.
When they entered, they found themselves in a dimly lit common room. The walls were lined with fishing nets and old weapons. A few candles provided the only light, casting dancing shadows across the faces of the handful of customers scattered throughout.
Behind the counter stood an old man with a magnificent white mustache. He was clean-shaven otherwise, and his cheeks were flushed red from drinking. A half-empty bottle sat at his elbow.
He looked up when Aris approached.
"Welcome to Karakol. What'll it be?"
Aris walked up to the counter, Fox padding silently at his heels. "Mr. Mustafa. The man in the cloak sent us. He wanted me to say that."
Mustafa's eyes sharpened despite the redness. He studied Aris for a long moment.
"You seem young. How old were you when you entered?"
"I was thirteen."
"Huh." Mustafa reached for two mugs and filled them from a barrel behind him. "It's been nearly five years. You can drink, then." He slid one mug toward Aris and raised the other, downing its contents in one gulp. "What do you seek?"
Aris took a sip. The beer was bitter and warm, but it felt good going down.
"Mr. R. said you can find me a caravan to Parthanon for safe travel. But I need to find someone else first."
"Who is it?"
Aris hesitated. He had come this far on faith. On whispers and hints and the teachings of a necromancer. But there was no turning back now. He was at his lowest. Level one in a world of monsters. He would take anything to close the gap.
"There was this NPC who guided me to make powerful potions. He said to look for him after leaving the academy. He has intel I desperately need."
Mustafa's red cheeks seemed to pale slightly. "There's only one NPC I can think of like that. The evil one. The PK maker." He snapped his fingers, trying to remember. "Mar... something."
"Yes. Marduk."
The name hung in the air like smoke.
Mustafa nodded slowly. "Well, he has another apprentice here, in fact. At that corner, you see." He pointed toward the back of the room.
Aris turned.
Two figures sat at a corner table, arguing in heated whispers. One was a young man with sharp features and quick eyes, wearing a dark leather vest over a plain shirt. The other was a villager type, broad-shouldered but desperate-looking, dressed in rough-spun clothes.
"Really?" Aris turned back to Mustafa, dumbfounded. "Are they both players?"
"Adon is a player. The other one is not someone I recognize. Some local wanting to learn." Mustafa leaned closer, lowering his voice. "Be careful with Adon. He's quick with his hands. I'll tell you that much."
Aris walked toward the duo, Fox at his heels. They were still arguing, oblivious to his approach.
"I told you, I am not calling Master for you ever again." Adon's voice was sharp, dismissive. "He doesn't want to take you as a disciple. Go away to your village."
"Come on, give me another chance." The villager was practically begging. "I couldn't enter the academy. I'm trying my hardest just by myself."
"No."
"You teach me, then."
Adon turned sharply and noticed Aris standing there. His eyes flickered over the young man and the fox, assessing. Calculating.
"Who are you? What do you want?"
Aris forced a smile. "Hello. I'm Aris. This is Fox, my..." He thought for a second and decided not to reveal the fox's true nature. "My pet fox."
Adon cocked his head. "So?"
"The innkeeper said you have a connection with a certain someone."
"I have many connections." Adon's voice dripped with practiced arrogance. He turned back to the villager. "We're done doing business. If you want my potions, they're eighteen silver each. Take it or leave it."
The villager's face fell. He stood slowly, defeat written in every line of his body.
"Please ask Master for me again. I'll be at Wooden Hut Village."
"Sure, sure." Adon waved him away like shooing a fly.
The villager shuffled past Aris, but not before casting a glance at him. There was something in that look. Curiosity, maybe. Or jealousy.
Adon turned his full attention to Aris and gestured at the now-empty seat. "And who are you looking for?"
Aris reached into his satchel and pulled out one of the blood-infused vials. The liquid inside was dark crimson, almost black. In the dim candlelight, it seemed to pulse with a faint inner glow.
"I'm looking for the owner of these recipes."
Adon's eyes went wide. He stood up so fast his chair scraped against the floor.
"I said go away," he told the villager, who had lingered near the door.
As Aris turned to look, he saw the villager staring at the vial in his hand. The man's eyes burned with unmistakable jealousy. Then he slipped out the door and disappeared into the night.
Adon sat back down, his entire demeanor changed. The arrogance was gone. In its place was something that looked almost like hunger.
"Where did you get that?"
Aris smiled. It was the first real smile he had felt in days.
"The same place you got yours."