Grant didn’t much care for hard exercise, but he reckoned Captain Nickel cared even less for stragglers. The sound of shuffling feet and panting men echoed at his sides and behind him, the time between steps and breaths gradually shortening as recruits fell behind and jogged to catch up. He idly wondered how the manacled passengers would keep up with the breakneck pace.

  The structures Grant saw from the hilltop created a jumble of contrasting colors, as if buckets of paint had been spilled across a canvas. From afar, it was an eyesore.

  From up close, it was an assault on his senses; a deep red house sat next to a bright yellow school, which bordered a blue bakery. There was even less space between them than he had discerned from above. The people wore similarly vivid clothing, no two the same, which clashed clumsily with the landscape and each other. Grant shook his head. They must have had all the money in the world to afford their brightly dyed tunics, pants, gowns, and even boots, but not a lick of sense or taste.

  While his eyes ached and stomach roiled, Grant had to admit he had not expected the city to be so clean.

  It was a hygienic, well-kept cleanliness. One that you would find in the house of a Healer. The streets were paved and entirely absent dust or dirt, even with thousands of muddy boots tracking through them. He watched the flakes of grime peel off their soles and sink into the road, disappearing from sight.

  “Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?” Lira walked beside him, bobbing up and down as she took in the sights.

  “Wonder what?”

  “How they did it.” She gestured to a squat building that shone an offensive shade of pink. “If you wanted to paint a house in Zile that way, the paint would cost you more than the house.”

  Grant grunted in agreement. Even the richest nobles in Iori lived in plain ivory brick homes, although he suspected their not slathering brilliant paint across them was less about coin and more about appearance.

  “But it’s not even the colors for me. It’s the smell.”

  Grant inhaled through his nose sharply. He swallowed, and then tried again, this time shoveling air towards his face. “What smell?”

  “Exactly,” Lira said through a smile, the corners of her eyes creasing. “There is none. We’re in a group as large as a battalion. We’ve been rained on, we’ve sweat, some have lost their lunches, and some have fallen in the mud.” She cocked her head. “But we don’t smell. We stank in the wagons and outside the city gates, but the moment we stepped inside, our stench simply disappeared.”

  Grant pulled in another deep breath, looking for something. She was right. It wasn’t the smell of fragranced soap, perfume, or oil. It was as if their noses had stopped functioning.

  Recruits heaved breaths in and coughed them out as Captain Nickel pressed forward, expertly navigating down streets and around corners. If there was ever a point where the slight man was unsure of where he was going, he didn’t show it. Eventually, they found a wide road, where he turned east.

  Grant watched a line of carriages roll past. He scrunched his brow in confusion.

  “Look at them,” he said to Lira. “Notice anything strange?” He smiled, enjoying the rare opportunity to catch her off guard.

  Her head turned. “Wait… how?” She squinted and gawked as their wheels rotated themselves. “How can they move without anything pulling them?”

  The carriages rolled along steadily, but not a single horse, mule, or donkey was attached to them by harness or strap. Their smooth wheels rotated on their own, as though they were going down a hill, but the road was flat.

  “Come to think of it, I haven’t seen a single horse here,” reflected Grant.

  “Yes, Private Leeman.” The voice came from ahead, where Captain Nickel had come to a stop. Recruits arrived behind, leaning on their knees and gulping breaths. “Unlike the less… civilized areas of our great nation, Athemore has done away with horses and oxen.” His words were laden with spite, but Grant hardly cared about the implied insult towards his home. “We have far better methods of transportation available.”

  They had stopped in front of a large pale green wall. “Like this,” he said, gesturing toward it. The color was like the inside of a melon—far gentler than what Grant was accustomed to seeing in the city. As they waited for the tail end of the crowd to arrive, he investigated the wall. Other than its unusual color, it was entirely unremarkable.

  “Walking to the city barracks would take days, even at our pace,” Captain Nickel began, projecting his voice over the crowd again. There were thousands behind Grant, so he assumed the message would be passed along. “Therefore, we will use different means.” Without another word, he walked into the green wall, which trembled and shimmered. A gasp echoed through the recruits.

  Grant stared stupefied. Captain Nickel had just disappeared before his eyes.

  Another officer reached the front of the line. He pointed. “Go.”

  Without waiting, Lira pushed into the wall, her hands raised out to her front, almost as if she didn’t trust it. She seemed to be sucked into it, and with a final yelp, disappeared as Captain Nickel had. Grant took a deep breath and went after her.

  For a brief moment, everything was the shade of green the wall had been. Then, he heard a voice barking orders at him.

  “Don’t crowd the exit point!” A man with a shaved head grabbed Grant’s arm and shoved him forward, just in time for another recruit to come through.

  The golden dome he had seen from the hill stood in front of him. Engraved over its double doors was a depiction of the Goddess holding a sword, in battle against a towering monstrosity. A shrine?

  “Selected to the left! Volunteers to the right!”

  Another strong hand shoved him from behind. He didn’t look back as he shuffled forward.

  “Selected to the left! Volunteers to the right!”

  Captain Nickel’s voice boomed every time new recruits stumbled through the green wall. Grant ran to the left as he and others were herded in two directions. Soldiers directed him down a long hallway, waving him past multiple quarters, until he reached the end and was guided into an enormous room. Row after row of bunk beds stood before him, stretching from the furthest wall to the door. Grant took a bottom bunk near the windows.

  On his bed, he found a clean pair of undergarments, brown pants, boots, and a light blue tunic. A voice called from the hallway. “Receive your clothing and report to the bathing hall!” Grant followed the voice, rushing in the direction he was guided. More and more recruits poured after him, officers stationed at every corner shouting orders. His legs felt as heavy as lead after days of sitting.

  He reached a small room where, surely enough, an officer was giving orders. “Disrobe and place your clothes in the chute!”

  Any misgivings he had about nudity vanished as he threw his filthy clothes and mud-crusted boots into a giant tray on the wall. He had received them from Rott in Iori, and while he felt a pang of regret for disposing of them after only one wear, they had been completely ruined by the journey.

  Through a large glass door lay the largest bathing hall Grant had ever seen. Steam rose from the water in wisps, and Grant smiled to himself. Warm baths were a rare luxury in Iori, and an even rarer one in a place like Mr. Fletcher’s inn.

  “How?” he whispered. The baths looked more like a lake, stretching all the way to the far brick wall, almost as large as his dormitory. Hundreds could bathe in its waters at once. Beyond the entire lake of water to fill it, it must have taken a whole forest worth of wood to heat for even a day.

  “Enter!”

  Promises of warmth and comfort lay under its waters, and Grant subdued the temptation to dive in. He examined his surroundings, puzzled, as the dirt and mud caked on his skin would make the waters filthy. In Iori, they washed outside the bath, and only when their bodies were clean would they go into the tub.

  But he obeyed, sliding into the warmth.

  Tiny bubbles tickled his skin and rose, taking the encrusted filth with them. When they broke the surface, the brown disappeared and the water returned to perfect clearness. He watched a nearby young man dunk his head and, with a shrug, submerged himself.

  When he broke the surface, he combed a hand through his hair and examined his fingers. There wasn’t a speck of residue. The bath had even removed even the grime from under his nails. Curiosity got the best of him, and after peeking left and right, he cupped his hands and brought bathwater to his mouth, swishing it around. It tasted like nothing. When he spat it out and ran his finger over his teeth, they made a satisfying squeaking sound.

  “Wash yourselves and get dressed!”

  Grant sighed, pushing himself to his feet and wading through the water toward the steps. He could have spent hours in there.

  By the time he reached the rack where he had laid his clothes, he was perfectly dry. He dressed himself, slipping his boots on last.

  They fit perfectly. Grant held his arms out. The sleeve ended at his wrist bone. He lifted a leg. It went to the bottom of his ankle, with no break at the hem. Why do they fit perfectly? There are countless unique sizes, and I chose my bunk at random. Grant paused before he laughed at himself for even giving it a thought. I’m in a city with a sight-repelling palace, stench-erasing streets, self-driving carriages, portals, and magical baths. Of course they can give me fitting clothes.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  For the next several hours, he ricocheted from station to station. A Healer scanned him, presumably for illness or injury. An administrator interviewed him about military experience and work history. He took a paper test, which he was almost certain he failed, and then a physical fitness test, which he was absolutely certain he failed. Finally, in the late evening, he sat down at a long table in the mess hall.

  Grant was exhausted. He stared hazily into nothing. Lira sat across from him, immediately laying her forehead directly on the table.

  He grunted, and she groaned in response.

  ***

  Instrumental music blared through the dormitory floor. Grant’s bed shook violently as his heavyset bunkmate startled awake and sat up, swinging his feet over the bed before jumping down in his undergarments.

  Grant chuckled to himself. He had been up for over an hour now, long having embraced the habit of Identifying his dagger upon reaching the Mana required. His constant efforts had been rewarded with yet another point in Wisdom, bringing his base to 10.

  “Mess hall, 5 minutes!” The call boomed over the sounds of music.

  While many of the other recruits let out cries of panic and redoubled their efforts, Grant sauntered out the door, already fully dressed. The people who knew Grant well could accuse him of being many things—avoidant, indecisive, pessimistic, and defensive. Late was not one of them. At the inn, he had always been the first one up, and usually the last one to bed. He would arrive never even a second past the promised time, and almost always with time to spare.

  Based on the situation in the mess hall, Grant would assume his fondness for punctuality was rare. Only a few scattered recruits sat around, watching the doors as others poured in. He sat at the same table he had the day before and rested his chin on his palm as more recruits ran awkwardly, frantically taking their seats. He watched his clock in anticipation.

  By some miracle, just about everyone—including Lira, whose eyes were speckled with green flakes and hair stood in five different directions—sat down on time. An officer stood at the front of the hall, and after a bell, the entrance doors closed.

  Most officers that Grant had seen were lean. They had natural grace to their movements. If they were like mountain lions, the man who stood in front of him was a bear. His face was round, and in the middle of it sat a bulbous nose that looked like it had been broken more times than the man had fingers on his hands. His eyes and lips were too small for his enormous face, and he kept the two top buttons of his uniform open, showing a chest with coarse hair as thick as a rug.

  The man did not open his mouth, but with a single look over the recruits, all conversation halted as they faced him.

  “Welcome to basic training.” His voice was deep and raw, as if he had started smoking a pipe fresh out of the womb.

  “I am Captain Alaric. If you check your Interface, you will find a schedule of your classes and yard time.” Immediately after the man finished his sentence, Grant received a Notification. He concentrated on it.

  [Class and Yard Schedule for Grant Leeman]

  [6:30am–8:30am] Yard

  [8:30am–10:30am] Skill Selection and Theory

  [10:30am–12:30pm] Yard

  [12:30pm–1:30pm] Lunch

  [1:30pm–3:30pm] Races and Monsters

  [3:30pm–5:30pm] Yard

  [5:30pm–6:30pm] Dinner

  [6:30pm–8:30pm] Survival Skills

  Grant grimaced. He would be in the yard for six hours a day. And how was he supposed to get to his next class if there was no time between them?

  “Your yard time will end 30 minutes early, after which you are expected to bathe and change. Please note that this is mandatory, even if you are from a region of the empire which does not care for concepts like cleanliness and hygiene. Fresh clothing will be placed on your bed. Your classes will similarly end 30 minutes early, and you may move to your next station during this time.

  “If you are late for breakfast, you will not eat. If you are late for lunch, you will not eat. If you are late for dinner, you will not eat.” Grant pressed his lips together to stop a scoff from jumping out. Last night’s dinner was minced meat baked into a pie, a plate of hard root vegetables, and rice. He wasn’t even close to being hungry and would happily trade a meal or two for some time alone in his bunk, if that was an option.

  A servant arrived at his table, placing a gigantic plate of eggs, bacon, more root vegetables, and two large slices of toast. Other recruits received similar breakfasts. Grant almost gagged at the idea of eating it all.

  “You may eat.”

  Without another word, the man left the room, the door banging shut behind him.

  The mess hall exploded in noise. Utensils clanked and scraped against plates, recruits shouted as they ate, and the feet of chairs groaned against the flooring. Lira was bleary-eyed, lazily munching on the corner of a piece of bread. Grant’s stomach still bulged uncomfortably from last night’s meal, not used to more than a bite or two of fatty meat, and he assumed that the slight woman in front of him was the same.

  “Are you going to eat that?” A thick dark finger entered his field of vision from the left, pointing down at his bacon. Grant’s eyes followed it up a muscular arm and bulging neck to a man’s face, and he recoiled involuntarily. The man’s torso was shaped like a keg. If a keg had arms that looked like they could crush an unripe coconut, legs so thick that he couldn’t fit a single one through Grant’s belt, and the face of a man who looked like he would kick a startled horse back if it kicked him first. He wore a dense black beard, which was bound with a white string at the end. A common trend for young men from the Stafgan region, which lay on the southernmost border of the Evenon Empire. His brown eyes were unexpectedly soft, though.

  Grant cursed himself for startling, but the man didn’t seem to notice. He took a piece of bread from his plate and slid the rest of his breakfast to the nice giant man, just as he asked. “Be my guest.” Another slid from the other side of the table towards the man. “Please,” Lira croaked.

  The two wagon-mates watched in awe as the enormous man shoveled handfuls of eggs and meat into his mouth. He spoke between bites. “Thanks. Name’s Roland. Worked as a merc. From Stafgan, fought in Ikelon. Got selected.”

  Grant wondered if he ever spoke in more than short sentences.

  “I’m Grant.”

  “Lira.”

  “Where are you from?” His gentle eyes landed on Grant.

  “Iori. You know it?”

  “Fought on the border. Gracian Empire. Savages.” His lip curled as if he had bitten into a flake of eggshell in his omelet. “You?”

  Lira pointed a finger at herself in question. “Me? Zile.”

  “Fought there too.”

  Grant was surprised a man from Stafgan had made his way so far north. He debated Identifying the man to see his age, but figured he wasn’t the shy type. “Can I ask how old you are?”

  “29. Couldn’t believe my luck. Calibration was a son of a bitch, though.”

  Grant and Lira winced at the comment about calibration before Grant did a double take. “Wait, did you say you were lucky to be selected?”

  The man tore a chunk of bread from a slice and shoved it in his mouth. “Been fighting my whole life. Campaign selection might be the best promotion I ever had. Things go well, I could start my own company in a few years, Goddess willing.”

  Grant tried to keep his expression neutral. In his time at the inn, he had seen countless soldiers and mercenaries come through. The cheap ale and gambling called them like mosquitos to still water. He always took them as barely sentient brutes, only motivated by violence and plunder. They didn’t have long-term plans; they had immediate wants and needs. Next week was an eternity to them, and a few years down the line might as well be another life.

  Roland seemed different.

  The back of a large black hand patted Grant’s shoulder a couple of times, then pointed to the opposite end of the hall. “Four tables ahead, all the way on the left.”

  Grant looked across the hall where Roland had directed his gaze. His eyes landed on Col. The sailor was eating with a group of men. Tan, wiry, tattooed men. Sailors.

  He ground his teeth nervously. Figures that I’d get the same mess hall.

  Roland nodded towards them. “The man’s been eyeing you. Planning something. He’s got a crew. Won’t do anything in a crowd though.” He spoke as if he were talking about the odds of rain, not Grant getting his skull caved in.

  Grant sneaked another peek. The men burst into riotous laughter over something Col said, one doubling over and slapping the table.

  “We have… history,” said Grant.

  “Don’t seem like history to him.” Roland leaned in. “Don’t be alone. If he tries anything when I’m around, I’ll jump in.” He clenched his hand into a fist, and it bulged like a knotted tree root.

  Grant’s eyes widened. “Why would you help me?”

  Roland tugged at his beard in careful consideration. Just when Grant thought he wasn’t going to get an answer, the man spoke. “You remind me of someone I know,” he said.

  “Huh. You know, you remind me of someone I know too,” Grant replied.

  ***

  Dan

  Dan sat near the sweltering forge, basking in its light and heat while he watched the flames dance. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead, and despite his thousands of life hours spent in front of it, he still couldn’t help but marvel at its stable heat. His grandfather told him many years ago that before Rune technology—or Rune Magic, depending on whom you asked—forges had to be heated by coal, constantly fed fuel lest they burn out.

  Now, they could pour the entire Ithian Ocean on his shop’s forge without even a flicker.

  The workshop was quiet, although quiet was a relative term for the Nerelot Forge. There were always workers finishing weapons or armor orders, refining ingots, or mentoring subordinates. His father had worked tirelessly to cultivate an atmosphere where cooperation was rewarded, and hostile competition squashed. Motivation was never lacking in the workshop’s walls, even in the earliest hours of the morning.

  And despite his relationship to the owner and his Inherited Class, Dan had never had any issues with favor-seeking or animosity from his peers. They treated him with respect and expected the same. There wasn’t so much as an argument under that roof, although there were always healthy debates to be had about crafting.

  He shook his head. It was such a shame he had to leave.

  Dan stroked his stubbled jaw as he recalled the past few days. It wasn’t any one thing that tipped him off, but a combination of several. “Take care of your mom and dad, Dan” were some of the last words Grant said to him. The young Blacksmith didn’t need a Perception Attribute as high as Grant’s to realize his friend’s words were laden with sadness. His word choice and his tone had gnawed at him for hours.

  He spoke as If he wanted to leave nothing unsaid—as if they would be some of the last words Dan ever heard from him.

  So, Dan dug deeper. He asked Gunther about the delivery to the Warthens’ villa. The old man gave him all the details he could want. The armaments were safely stored in the wagon, nestled right alongside “all other cargo.” Dan was assured that everything had departed on schedule and gone through the city gates with no problems.

  Nothing departed on schedule in Iori. There was always a late mercenary, a hungover driver, a broken wheel or red tape.

  Dan knew something was wrong. Would have loved nothing more than to shout his dad into submission, get him to admit to it all. But he had to push gently. Like forging a quality weapon, impatience was the first step toward failure. He gritted his teeth for days before he found a chance to bring up the idea of visiting Grant during the fall costume festival.

  “Sounds like a good idea! Let’s see if we can’t work something out,” the man had said.

  His father was a poor liar. After the 15 years he had with the man, he knew one truth: he dealt exclusively in yesses and noes—never maybes.

  Dan watched the flames. Throughout his life, he had encountered many who thought him a fool. For reasons he couldn’t grasp, people always seemed to assume that big meant unintelligent, as if there wasn’t enough blood in your body to support both muscle and mind.

  And once Dan Inherited a Class and got Interface access, he dismissed all illusions about being a genius. His Intelligence stood at a perfectly average 10—high enough to not piss on his shoes, low enough to make Magic a distant prospect.

  But he knew Grant wasn’t sitting safely at some villa. He would be at the capital right now, probably scared out of his mind. For reasons beyond Dan’s understanding, trouble seemed to naturally find his best friend, even though he never went looking for it.

  He would eventually find a convincing reason to step out, if only for a few days. He would visit a recruitment center, where he could volunteer for the Sixth Campaign. Fear and guilt consumed his every thought—fear for his life, and guilt for what his decision would do to his mother and father.

  They would understand in time, though, as his father had made the same choice 15 years ago. Eventually, they would learn to take comfort in the one thing Dan did:

  Grant was not alone.