Artyom lay in his bed drifting off to sleep. When he first entered this World, it was reticent and dreamless. After his first day at Sandy Cove, it was only silent. And now, that silence was finally broken.

Artyom floated through a miasma of swirling red and purple, swathed in the familiar comfort of his quicksteel armor, or perhaps they were just a regular sweater and pair of sweatpants here? He knew he was in a dream, acutely aware of it even. But unlike most dreams, such an understanding came to him immediately.

He tried to lift his arms and change the scenery, hoping that he would be able to control this dizzying ether as if he were dreaming lucidly. When that failed, he decided to instead start small and summon a sandwich, regrettably to the same effect.

“So this is new,” he absentmindedly mumbled to himself. “Not really the best dream I’ve ever had, but I guess it beats a nightmare. Now what?”

“Now, you earn the knowledge you have won,” boomed a voice in front of him. From within the dreamworld, heralded by a chorus of howls, a looming humanoid figure bedecked in black silk robes and a somber expression appeared in front of him as if it were always there. He was always there in fact. The nature of that realm simply allowed for such paradoxes to exist.

“And I’m guessing you’re Yama?” asked Artyom, craning his neck upwards to regard the figure with a curious gaze.

He received a solemn nod in response from the imposing man who simply was before him.

“So I’ve got to ask, where exactly are we? This doesn’t look like any dream I’ve ever had.”

“Correct again,” he replied in a deep basso voice that seemed to vibrate the reality surrounding them. “This is the space between realms, where we may finally meet.”

“Wait, the void between Worlds?” asked Artyom, his voice taking on a level of surprise as he tried to take in his surroundings for a second time. “I’ve heard theories about what it’s like, but I never expected it to be so… psychedelic.”

“Incorrect. This is the space between realms, such as the mortal plane and my domain, the land of the dead. We are still within the same ‘World’, as you call it.”

“Huh, well that makes more sense,” replied Artyom, trying to take a deep breath in order to calm himself down, only to realize he already was calm. He hypothesized that this wasn’t his physical body, which was probably still asleep back in his hotel room. “So I’m guessing this is some kind of forced astral projection to a common meeting ground? Can’t say I’m not impressed, but I’m not really a fan of being put into such a position. Couldn’t you have just come over to the mortal plane, or just transport me to your ‘realm’ instead?”

“The curse on this World keeps us confined to our realms, and I’ve already used much of my power to even create this opportunity for us to speak,” the figure replied with an impatient glare, the surrounding colors they floated through growing darker and him growing larger.

“And what about your place? I’m guessing it’s not because you forgot to clean up?”

“You are still alive, you do not belong in my realm.” He shrunk back to normal with a sigh, and their surroundings returned to their previous vibrancy. “It is surprising. I don’t believe I’ve ever received such an irreverent response from someone I’ve approached before.”

“Well, I hope you don’t hold it against me,” said Artyom with a shrug, willing himself to spin around in a floating cartwheel. “I mean, this is a dream, one of the only places I can say and do whatever I want without any real consequences, so I’ve made it a bit of a habit to let loose while I’m here.”

“That is a sentiment I can comprehend,” he replied, his expression once again neutral. Artyom was returned back to his original position and kept there. The world around them seemed to somehow grow even more quiet as he continued. “Though you ought to be careful with beings who can communicate with you through your dreams. You may not be in the mortal realm, but your words and actions still have consequences, even here.”

“In that case, I’ll just avoid astral projecting like this in the future, if I can help it. No point dreaming if you still have to be responsible.”

He nodded again. “Though, I have to say I am somewhat disappointed. I expected more decorum from you, Chosen Hero.”

Artyom looked back up in surprise. “No, no, you’ve got it all wrong. You’re probably thinking of Tommy. You know, the supposedly 19 year old kid with the mind of a 30 year old and the maturity of someone who’s just started puberty?”

“No, I mean you, Chosen One.” His gaze pierced Artyom’s soul, judging his entire past and being in an instant. Artyom felt it, he understood it.

“That was a long time ago,” replied Artyom with a cautious sneer, forced to face his uncomfortable history. “And I wasn’t even chosen by any deity or prophecy. I just got unlucky.”

“Yes, I see in your heart that dharma was not upheld,” he replied solemnly.

“Dharma? What’s that?” asked Artyom. The phrase sounded familiar, but he didn’t want to bother taking the time to remember it.

“It is duty, obligation, the all-encompassing concept that I am known as the Lord of. And the answer to the riddle.”

Artyom considered the words for a silent moment before his sneer took on the unmistakable fire of loathing. “Hey! I had no obligation to those assholes who summoned me! I was kidnapped from my home and forced to fight in their petty little border wars. I never swore fealty to them, I wasn’t born under their rule, and I definitely didn’t sign up to get myself killed for their bullshit!”

“No, not you.” His voice was stern, yet sympathetic. The whole world seemed to slow down now as he spoke. “Those who brought you over failed in their duty to the common man. They kidnapped, enslaved you with lies, and desecrated the Voice of Brahma.”

“That’s better, thank you,” replied Artyom, now mollified. “But what’s that last thing you listed?”

“I believe you refer to it as the runes. As life was borne from him, Brahma weaved finer structure into the universe and life through his voice.”

“Huh, alright. I don’t remember reading about Brahma in the book of gods, though,” replied Artyom.

“No, he would not be there. He was cursed millenia ago hiding him from the realms, still diligent in his own duties. Otherwise we would have asked him to help.”

Artyom nodded, only half paying attention to the explanation. While this was something the loremasters back at headquarters would’ve loved to hear, Artyom figured it wasn’t immediately relevant to his mission. Perhaps he’d regret not asking for elaboration on the World’s extra-secret history when he woke up, but that was the fault of his arrogant dream-self.

“You, unlike those who first summoned you, have devoted your life after such a tragedy to saving others from the same fate,” the figure continued. “You have come here as part of that very duty to save this Tommy from what the Cursed One plans.”

“You mean the goddess, right? Alivaine? And what even is her plan?”

“Yes. 600 years ago, she appeared in our World and usurped the true pantheon. We have lost all connection to the mortal plane. What she plans, we do not know for sure, but even you have seen that she is grooming him for some purpose.”

“Not doing a very good job at it, if she’s going to just hand him everything on a silver platter.”

“That is true, and none of the other banished divinities can make sense of it either, with our limited connections. However, you are not limited as we are, and thus your appearance here is most fortuitous, chosen one.”

“I’ll say it again, I’m not the chosen one. With your ‘Curs-ed One’ being a fraud, I don’t think there really is a chosen one in this World. At least without anyone qualified to be naming any.”

“I am qualified.” He looked at Artyom with softer eyes. “For solving my riddle and abiding by dharma, I have chosen you and Neitra to wield my weapon against the scourge on this land.”

“Oh, uh thank you,” sputtered Artyom, taken by surprise. Solving the riddle and obtaining the weapon was just another part of his mission, he didn’t realize it’d come with this kind of baggage as well. If anything, it was probably the first time in Artyom’s life he was ever legitimately declared a bonafide “chosen one”. Even his arrogant dream-self couldn’t overlook the significance of the event. “But how are you going to get the weapon to me if you’re stuck… there?”

“It is true, the cursed one has banished us to our realms and sealed us away with her power, but she made one mistake.” His lips curled in a wry smile.

“And what’s that?”

“A single goddess of her caliber cannot take on all of our tasks by herself, and has left us to continue our own duties despite our confinement. Humanity would collapse without us, so we continue to toil.”

“And that helps… how?”

“Millions of dead passing through my realm, free from her taint and raging against her hands at the denial of a true life… there’s a certain type of magic found in emotion. A million screams at being born into a damned existence have torn their way back into the world of the living, a million wills to carry my own over. You may find the Yamastra in Ironheart Fortress’ crypt, where their first soldiers were laid to rest. Go, my chosen, and keep to the path of dharma.”

“Alright, but what should I do with it-”

Artyom’s eyes opened as he returned to the world of the living. Birds chirped outside of the room’s lone window, the only noise piercing through the early morning silence. He and Neitra sharply inhaled as they jerked their bodies forward simultaneously, eyes wide and fixed towards each other.

“Artyom, I had this dream about the riddle!” excitedly proclaimed Neitra while whispering something under her breath between words.

“Was there a really huge guy in black robes who told you where to find the Yamastra?”

“Yeah! Wait, did you have the same dream?”

“Looks like it.”

The two stared at each other for several more seconds, shaking off the rest of their early morning drowsiness.

“So what are we waiting for?” asked Neitra, throwing off her covers and jumping out of bed. “Let’s get ready and find it!”

The renegade duo walked up to a deceptively decrepit building, a fresh coat of paint doing its best to hide the apparent age of everything underneath. Windows turned opaque from the passage of time and cracks in the wood facade gave away the true bygone nature of the establishment before them.

“So this is the crypt, huh?” asked Artyom, regarding the hemp stanchions leading a nonexistent line to an open doorway.

“Apparently,” replied Neitra. “It was a miracle we found someone old enough to remember that it was converted into a military museum. So do you think we’ll just find what we’re looking for being displayed on one of the walls?”

“I hope not,” chuckled Artyom. “We only got this ‘chosen one’ gig because we’re apparently so dutiful. I don’t think stealing from a museum is going to get us any points in that department.”

“Yeah… I hope we don’t have to steal anything,” replied Neitra with a thoughtful frown. “Especially seeing as how the prophecy did pay off.”

“We don’t know that yet,” corrected Artyom. “Not until we have it in our hands and test it out.”

Neitra looked down silently.

“Hey, it’s not that the prophecy is bunk or anything,” said Artyom, attempting to comfort her. “It’s legit, we both had the same dream, but I have no idea what this weapon is like and what it can do beyond what I read in that book, which isn’t much.”

“So I guess we’ll have to get it first,” said Neitra, steeling herself and making her way to the entrance.

Artyom quickly followed behind her, the same sentiment on his mind.

A blinding-white brightness hit them as they entered the building, not from an attack or illuminating flame, but from the sheer color of the walls. Sunlight reflected off of the pure white facade surrounding them, hosting the same sheen as the fortress’. Along many of the walls were display cases showcasing a variety of weapons, banners, and medals. From pikes, swords, and bows, to a charred and dusty flag of Ironheart Fortress, and even tarnished blue and silver badges. There was barely a single edge of the room not taken up by some form of war memorabilia.

Several people shuffled between the displays, mostly older folks reliving their glory days, alongside chaperoned young children learning of their city’s history. Compared to them, Artyom and Neitra stood out like sore thumbs. Especially when they ignored most of the plaques and casually walked by any weapon that didn’t match what they were looking for. They passed by all manner of edged or pointed arms, but no staves, let alone ones made of dark wood. Maybe the location was incorrect, or they had to search harder?

“Excuse me, I couldn’t help but notice that you two seem to be searching for something. Can I help you?”

Artyom and Neitra turned around to see a short, portly man regarding them with a curious look. Unlike the other patrons, who were dressed in casual clothes or old military uniforms, he was wearing a smooth linen shirt and pants dyed the same blinding white as the walls. On the right side of his chest was a cloth name tag stitched onto the outfit, dubbing him as “Klime.”

“Uh, hi Klime,” said Artyom cheerily, adopting the persona of a stereotypical tourist. “The two of us had a bet and were wondering if any of the soldiers ever used staves? All we can find here are weapons with pointy bits of metal!”

“Mmh, I don’t believe so,” he replied after thinking for a moment. “Even though such nonlethal weapon classes have very versatile Skills, it takes too long to level them up for them to be useful in the army.”

“I see then,” said Artyom, slightly disappointed, but not defeated. He began to channel his aura towards the man. “But do you by any chance have any staves on display here, or somewhere else?”

“I’m sorry sir, this isn’t a shop,” replied Klime, barely resisting the effect of the aura. “If you do want to purchase one, I know a very nice carpenter who might be able to carve one for you.”

Artyom swore to himself internally. This was as much as he could crank up his aura without it being obvious. Any more and he could get them kicked out, and that was something he didn’t want to risk just yet. As he considered alternate options, Neitra spoke up in a confident whisper.

“We’re looking for the Yamastra, and we believe it’s here.” She said it sincerely, not even breaking eye contact with the man.

Klime’s eyes went wide as he took a drawn out breath. He quickly dropped his own voice to a similarly low volume and waved the duo over to the back room. “Come with me, let’s talk away from the others.”

Artyom, surprised at the directness of the question and the response, quickly scanned his surroundings for anything suspicious. In his experience, when things were this easy, it was usually a trap. He mapped out two emergency escape routes that involved jumping out of a window, and performed an ocular patdown on every patron. Of course, with them mostly being children and the elderly, there probably wasn’t much to worry about, even if they did attack. But the older you were, the more likely you had greater levels and more powerful Skills, which was something Artyom kept in mind as he followed the others to the back room.

“For generations, my family has been in charge of looking after the crypt this museum was built on top of,” said Klime in a soft voice as they crossed the room’s threshold. “It must have been over 700 or 800 since we took up such a duty, back when there was no Sworn Enemy but plenty of other great threats nearby.”

The trio reached the back room, and upon confirming that nobody else had followed them, Klime continued.

“Last night, I had a very strange dream. Some of my ancestors, I’ve seen portraits of them my grandparents kept around, came and told me that a man and woman would come asking about such a thing. They said it was a weapon that would stop something even worse than the Sworn Enemy, not that I can believe such a thing exists! But they were very angry and very serious, and I couldn’t ignore them! They told me to lead the two to the crypt, and to tell you that what you’re looking for is at the very bottom.”

“See? Someone else had a dream like ours!” exclaimed Neitra, careful to keep her voice low enough to not be heard by the other patrons.

“Yeah, I guess so,” replied Artyom, once again scanning his surroundings. “It does give credence to it, at least.”

“The entrance to the crypt is through the door over there,” said Klime, pointing towards a decrepit slab of wood barely hanging from its hinges. “Just walk down the stairs and continue forward. There are a few turns here and there, but it’s a relatively straight line to the stairs for each floor. Good luck!”

The duo thanked the man and climbed down the stairs to the crypt.

“Why do we have to go so slowly again?” complained Neitra in a hoarse whisper. “This place is completely deserted.”

She and Artyom made their way across the first floor of the crypt at a snail’s pace, both of them constantly checking their surroundings for traps or ambushes, despite not having found anything yet. Caskets and urns lined the walls and formed the corridors they crossed ever so carefully. Their darkvision abilities didn’t provide them with enough information to make out the details of their surroundings, thus their speed.

“You know the dungeon we all went through earlier? The one for Tommy to get his magic sword?” asked Artyom.

“Yeah, what about it?”

“The same thing is going on here. We’re a pair of chosen ones traveling through a dark and decrepit basement filled with the remains of warriors of yore, trying to get a divine weapon at the end. This has got to be a dungeon too, so we’re taking proper dungeon precautions.”

“You make a good point,” said Neitra hesitantly, her eyes still darting around the dark room. “But it wasn’t that bad there, and all of the enemies were towards the end. Do we still need to do this?”

“Look, that dungeon was just part of the goddess’ wild goose chase for Tommy. It wasn’t meant to be hard because he was just supposed to waltz in and feel like a heroic badass. She’s been going for quantity over quality, believe me.”

“And you think this is a real dungeon, then? One where we can expect a serious challenge?”

“That’s right!” said Artyom with a smile. “So let’s make sure we get through this place in one piece. There’s also usually a boss monster at the very end we need to be at our best to take on. Honestly, if things start looking like they want to keep us out, we can leave and do some preparation before we come back. Of course, it’s better to know what we’re up against before we start getting ready.”

Neitra nodded with a soft grunt and they continued onwards.

The rest of their delve went by slowly and uneventfully, the latter of which Artyom considered a boon in and of itself despite Neitra’s differing opinion. After passing through three basement floors, the duo arrived at a spacious room where caskets lined a circle around a marble statue that looked eerily similar to the figure from their dreams. Its hand was a mahogany staff separate from the rest of the idol.

The long piece of dark wood was a near-perfect replica of the depiction Artyom saw in the hidden book. Intricate designs covered its surface, and a solemn-looking face was carved into its top, remarkably similar to that of the statue itself.

“Alright Neitra, we might not have encountered anything so far, but I can guarantee you that as soon as we remove the weapon, the dead are going to rise and go after us. Or maybe there’s some kind of trap that’ll fill the room with fire or poison gas. I’ve seen them both, sometimes at the same time.”

“Are you sure about that, Artyom?” asked Neitra, slowly approaching the statue. “He seemed like a really nice guy in the dream. Why would he try to kill us when he’s trying to give us his weapon?”

“It’s a test,” replied Artyom. “And to keep out any would-be intruders.”

“But then any adventurer could’ve found and taken it if they went down here, and there have been plenty of capable teams since the crypt was first created. Besides, the riddle and our goals were his test, and we already passed them.”

Artyom grumbled in reply. “Still, this is the real deal. Better to be careful than dead.”

“And we are,” said Neitra, as she slowly reached for the staff. The dark wood felt cool in her hands as she grasped it and moved her fingers across the indentations across its surface.

“Alright, so far so good. Pull it when I say-”

Neitra pulled the staff from the statue’s hand in a single smooth movement, taking a step back as she did so due to how much unnecessary force was applied.

“Now,” deadpanned Artyom as he quickly entered a combat stance and took note of any changes in his surroundings via a 360 degree pirouette, hands balled into fists and combat spells cast.

Neitra did the same, drawing a dagger in her left hand while her right still held the staff.

After half a minute, the two began to visibly relax, but Artyom didn’t let his guard down.

“I know what you’re going to say,” he grumbled. “Let’s wait until after we get back to our hotel room safely before you do. I don’t want to jinx it.”

Neitra looked at him smugly as they began a much faster trek back up to the surface.