Torrel’s Restaurant was quietly rowdy this evening with voices unheard to all but one pair of ears.

This sauce is simply scrumptious. I have to get a recipe gem from the Chef.

Who eats with their hood up? So uncivilized. I bet he’s factionless.

Is that him? Oh my, it is. Okay, Okay, stay calm, Genna. It isn’t as if you’re the most interesting woman in the world. Why would he care about what you’re thinking? Stay fucking calm! Is he listening right now? Um, hello? Sorath, are you there? If you are, may I have some privacy, please? Thank you so much.

I wonder if he can tell me what the Royal Lottery numbers are.

My back still hurts. Lien owes me a refund. Darn him.

Ken, I love you. Why are you ignoring me?

Meanwhile, Ken was chanting in his thoughts: I know you’re listening. I know you’re listening. Get out of my head. I know you’re listening. I know you’re listening. Get out of my head. I know you’re listening. I know you’re listening. Get out—

Sorath blocked out that spotty kid along with every other unhelpful gossiper. There were dozens of minds here; not one person had uttered a thought about Cardon, and they would have by now. Bounty targets weren’t hiding in plain sight either, sadly.

A gruff voice belonging to a bulky man thought, These meatballs are disgusting! What level is the Chef?! Shit!

A handful of small scars decorated the man’s face, but he wasn’t a target. He was a trusted mid-level Blacksmith who sometimes helped at Greenwood School. What was his name? It didn’t matter.

And these meatballs weren’t disgusting. Sorath was very much enjoying his plate of spaghetti meatballs served with a generous amount of thick tomato sauce rich with diced mushroom, basil, onion, garlic, and an assortment of herbs and peppers. Meat was tender and juicy, and spaghetti was made to perfection, not too thick, cooked all the way through but not overdone. He washed it down with steaming black tea, strong and bitter, unsweetened. One wouldn’t ever find food so filling out there on savage lands.

As he finished the plate, he began flipping pages, back and forth, committing more notable bounties to memory… particularly a handful of expelled troublemakers: Logar, Anton, Theo, and Fenon. These faces were less surprising than Cardon’s. With varying degrees of violence, their crimes each mentioned incitement of regicide, which was the most common crime for list A—minimum-risk targets. Attempted murder was a close second. Assault wasn’t as common as one would assume. Neither was theft.

List B was mostly serial killers. No familiar faces.

List C had bandit lords, pirate captains, and group-bounties for their followers and crews. Naturally, these were the most lucrative. A hundred thousand gold for Veric Taul’s head. And two million gold for—

A young girl’s yelp pulled Sorath’s attention. “Mom! Water Elemental!” She pointed at the window.

At a mass of frothing, spinning water on the courtyard. A solid icy mana core shone bright azure in the downpour. It was wandering absentmindedly.

“Ignore it, honey,” her mother said.

“It’s coming.”

“Don’t point at it. Sit down.” Her eyes rolled as she thought, what do they even teach at school now?

“I’m scared.” The girl wanted attention more than she was scared—before lightning flashed with a simultaneous earsplitting boom, directly overhead. Her fright was a second lightning bolt jolting down her spine, and she screamed in earnest. Then she ate more attention than she could stomach; embarrassment warmed her mana.

Innocence. Nauseating innocence.

Sorath pouched the binder and exited through the back door, across the inn’s garden on stone squares in submerged grass. The rain was like a torrent from an over-enchanted shower head. The wind was a breeze that his weighted cloak easily held form against, but its waterproof enchantment was waning; water seeped onto his head, dripped down his neck-length hair. His favorite jerkin didn’t feel so good.

Under his boots, two rats were furiously digging to safety. Their panic made them leave trails of piss and defecation.

Sorath almost threw up. His left hand balled. A teaspoon of mana electrified. “Telenka,” he hissed, catching both. He squeezed in sadistic pleasure.

Double crack. Pests humanely dispatched.

And the gods had something to write.

Skill Advancement: Telekinesis (Intermediate 3)

Type: Active, Psionic

Effect: Physically manipulate up to 3 targets at a distance not greater than 13 strides

Cost: 25 initial mana per target, then an equivalent stamina per second

Cooldown: 20 seconds after release of manipulation

Intermediate Bonus: When resisting, targets must expend 10% more stamina than you exhaust

About time. It had been weeks since the last advancement.

He walked into the square, harshly drew his shortsword, the steel ringing.

By the well lounged the elemental. It fed off water in a bucket, emotionless.

Brackia, Sorath invoked.

The fabric of reality warped around him. For a split second, buildings and trees elongated into curved streaks. His boots scuffed behind the elemental, if it had a behind at all. He thrust forward, pierced its core before Backstab’s damage bonus wore off.

A cry echoed from another dimension. The Water Elemental froze, cracked, and shattered as Sorath pulled out his sword and shielded his face. Where his sleeve and glove didn’t meet, pain clipped his skin. Just a scratch. A bit deeper, it would’ve cut the artery, and blood-soaked wool was annoying to clean.

He scanned melting pieces twice over. No loot gems. Not even one. As expected.

Onward to Corel Park.

Down Pallius Street, where many high-level Chefs lived in terraced houses, two elementals were stealing water from an angelic fountain on Torrel’s lawn. Behind them, another drank out of a collection barrel.

Sorath casually walked up and lined up the three. Pyscha-Cres, he slashed diagonally, mana rushing down his arm into the blade’s edge, releasing a crescent of indigo-white mana crackling with lightning that flew with a mid-level eagle’s speed.

Three cores shattered. And no collateral damage… except for a tiny chip on the angel’s wing—not enough to set off any faction or town laws.

On a walkway between houses, a fatter Greater Water Elemental was lazing about at the other end. It seemingly noticed him. Ice diamonds started forming in a ring. Hail Barrage.

He sprinted, leaped over a pool. Mid air, he invoked Backstab, delivered a point-blank empowered Psionic Slash, then jumped away as it froze. Its shatter was like a house of glass breaking. No loot gems.

He skidded downhill into Corel Park, and his boots collected worms along the way, slaughtered dozens. Rabbits hid deeper in their warrens. Birds were anxious among high branches. Above all else, thirty to forty Water Elementals were feeding from the flooded pond. Two Greaters. Grinning like a kid again, he made a beeline for the nearest.

Brackia. Psycha-Cres.

Shatter.

Zero loot gems.

Not missing a beat, he dashed into the pavilion and jumped off the steps. Telekinesis propelled him forward. “Hexus,” he snarled. His pulse quickened. The darkness in his heart tainted his mana, and his blade took on an indigo sheen. He cut with Frailty and Fragility. The hexes didn’t even take effect before it froze. A Backstab to a Water Elemental saved him from the fallout.

And the loot?

Zilch.

Disappointment drowned out his manic high. Needless to say, killing elementals wasn’t going to make him rich otherwise half the town would be warring in the rain over the wettest locations. This was a child’s game—Tutorial School exam level. And he was an adult. An eighteen-years-old man with half a million in debt.

Level 41.

So why am I out here wasting time?

A passing Water Elemental seemingly looked at him and shrugged.

“Piss off, you.”

In the pavilion, earthen mana quivered with amusement.

Sorath’s tongue clicked. “Are you following me?”

“I’m on patrol,” Madrog answered in false-honesty. “Last time during a storm like this, eight children were almost killed here. I assume you were thinking the same?”

“Yeah.” Sorath, shrugging, Backstabbed to him, sheathed his sword, and stood still for a prolonged moment. He peeled off his hood before sitting with a sigh. “It doesn’t seem anyone’s interested.”

“It does not.” Madrog was careful to not verbalize his thoughts. “But I thank you for coming. Your heart was in the right place. You would make a fine Town Guard for our people. They may not think so, but they need you. Did you know we are the safest large town in the kingdom? On the outskirts no less.”

“Because of me?”

“Well, not all because of you. I have to take most of the credit. My patrol route layouts are some of the best.”

A stressful weight lifted as Sorath chuckled. “They’re not random?”

“They only appear random—to fool potential criminals. I’ve worked on them for decades, you see.”

“You’ve been a Town Guard all your life?”

“I have.” And I don’t regret it.

“Let me guess. Your father was a Town Guard, and his father was one too?”

Madrog answered seriously, “My father was, but his father was a Dungeoneer like your mother.”

“How’d that go for him, if I may ask?”

Mild sadness crumbled his mana. “Killed by an acid trap. He didn’t see his fortieth birthday.”

A Water Elemental approached and drank from a puddle by the pavilion’s bottom step as Sorath wiped rainwater off his face. “Let’s say my father is alive, out there somewhere, and by divine luck he stumbles on the right pocket dimension. What’s he going to do with my mother’s body?”

“A funeral. What else?” Nervousness sucked mana into Madrog’s gut.

Sorath said in a lighter tone, “I don’t know, a big jar with her pickled corpse inside?”

Madrog didn’t laugh. Neither was he feeling amused. He purposefully swallowed. “Your father is… a difficult man at times. But it is my belief that he will always choose to do the right thing. Assuming he is alive, and I don’t believe he is. You, on the other hand, are very much alive, and I would hate to declare your passing as well.”

Because people here needed a Psionic Hexblade to constantly listen in on their thoughts to protect them from themselves. Something about that sounded not quite right. A Water Elemental apparently agreed, subtly nodding.

“I believe…” Sorath scratched an itch on his chin. “I believe the gods put people like me here for a reason. I don’t believe it’s to be a Town Guard for the rest of my life.”

At those words, a boisterous party of young adolescents assaulted the pond, multicolored Mage spells lighting up the park, mostly fire spells. Elementals boiled and evaporated. A Greater Water Elemental gave them a little trouble but only for a few seconds. Their Priest healed a wounded Fire Mage in a burst of gold light. They were having the time of their lives.

Until they noticed the pavilion.

“Hello, there!” Madrog greeted with a strong wave-salute. “Don’t mind us, just on a patrol. Carry on.”

Collective anxious alarm blared from their party. An older boy knew how to do the bubble enchantment, crudely. Their Priest, a deer-faced girl, thought, Holy shit, it’s him. Uh… Uh, Hi? Sorry, I’m sure you’re a nice fellow, but Mother says to stay away from you. She tugged a younger boy’s sleeve.

“I have bounties to turn in. Goodbye, Madrog.” Sorath put up his hood and walked off.

Madrog didn’t follow. Of course he wouldn’t; he had never left his post or slacked on the job—good on him.

And good on the gods of nature for thinning the downpour to a kind drizzle for Sorath’s journey home. They must be in good moods; maybe he had done something to please the gods in general. Or maybe they were planning a horrible deluge and this was only a false reprieve.

Picking up speed, he ran into a downhill walkway between houses toward the poorly neighborhoods.

White light flashed. A boom rumbled as sparks fell.

Lightning had struck an unflagged pole dangerously close to him, and he had drawn his shortsword in instinct. For sure, the gods were having a laugh.

Parasol in one hand, sword in the other, he used the town’s royal keep as his navigating compass through these run-down neighborhoods. Some trees were hurt, not because of weather, and windows were exclusively crafted from insulated double-layered wood. Curbs were nonexistent while roads were barely flat and hard enough to be called roads, but that didn’t matter, because those who owned manasteeds wouldn’t ever ride here.

A raid party of young adults spawn-camped Water Elementals at the local park, and Sorath sifted through their mundane thoughts and mundane faces. No one was feeling suspiciously tense or guilty—only exhausted from poverty, overwork, and hiked tribute rates for the last five years. Heads turned as Sorath sliced an elemental’s core. It froze and shattered without loot. He ran onward, boots splashing in muddy water that smelled worse than usual.

Someone’s curiosity leaked through an uninsulated wall’s open window: Is that Sorath Adanell? Why’s he here?

Sorath answered, Why are you asking? Are you guilty of incitement of regicide?

She probably was by the law’s sweeping terms. Merely whispering ill of the King in private could make one’s name appear on list. Obviously, it took more than whispers to warrant a visit from Guards; it took loud speaking on the streets.

But as for real, legitimate incitement? Difficult to say…

Sorath guessed Cardon and Theo had been plotting a rebellion… or stupidly shouting discontent from rooftops. Pointless either way. The kingdom was stable, growing. Skilled crafters were treated better than gold. Strong fighters were invited into the Royal Guard. Sorath knew he had their attention; the bounty lists for this region had been put together in record time, and the leather binder carried waterproof and fireproof enchantments, all high-quality. Free of charge.

And one could bet that Madrog’s hospitality was ulteriorly motivated, not saying he wasn’t a genuinely kind soul.

Up a flight of wooden stairs between houses, Sorath Backstabbed to a Greater Water Elemental, cut it, kicked it to the road. It shattered unevenly. A piece of ice ricocheted off a tree trunk into mud, missed his cheek by a hair length.

Not ice.

A loot gem. Emerald. Small perfect triangle.

Paltry excitement churned mana in his torso. A gambler may buy it for more than it was worth. Fifty gold? A bit optimistic. “Telenka,” he mouthed, and the gem rose and wiped itself on a leaf, then floated into his cloak, into his pouch.

He ran on, cut an elemental every hundred steps. Every two hundred steps now. The rain was thinning, and the lower neighborhoods hadn’t been flooded like he had imagined. Taking the longer route had been… not a complete waste of time. Thirty extra minutes of running. Decent experience.

The adobe was the smallest dwelling in an average neighborhood near the wealthier side. Trees were lush, communally maintained like every patch of grass was. There were flowerbeds. Curbs were sharp. Paved roads were smooth enough to cook on during a blazing day. A manasteed galloped by a polished street sign. Its ethereal, starry head lacked sentience, but it acted as though it were alive and intelligent, neighing in greeting. Maybe intermediate-3 Telepathy wasn’t sufficiently advanced.

Sorath sprinted around a lavender corner into Tillia Street.

And more than twenty manasteeds were lined against the curb, both sides. Parasols gathered on the road in front of the adobe, Town Guards lingering near. An auctioneer in a black and purple cloak stood on a crate, saying, “Once more, this is a fine family home in running distance of Greenwood Tutorial School and the School of Adventure. Cool during summer, warm during winter, built with high-quality hardened clay bricks and a waterproof mahogany inner frame.”

Faces weren’t impressed.

No lawn and no space for a steed? Who lives here?

Those cracks are only going to spread.

That asking price! Hahahahahaha!

Two bedrooms is considered a family home here. Peasants.

But an old bearded man with a top-hat raised two fingers. “Ninety-thousand.” How wise of him.

“We have ninety-thousand,” the auctioneer lively said. “Once more, this is a fine family home that will stand for decades to come. For a quarter-million in this part of town, it is a bargain. Do we have one-hundred thousand?” His eyes swept, hitching on Sorath. “Ah, and here is the owner. Psionic Hexblade Sorath Adanell.”

Heads turned. Few eyes widened. Several bubbles appeared one by one.

A Hexblade lives here?! And what was that modifier?

This is where he lives? No wonder he’s so grumpy all the time.

Hello, Bubble Head. I was wondering where you were.

A facial tick squeezed Sorath’s eye. He blocked them all and remembered to sheath his sword. He looked at the auctioneer, said in a neutral tone, “I wasn’t informed the auction was moved to today.”

His smile was sleazy. “A small miscommunication, but you have my apology nevertheless.” He wasn’t sorry. “Now, do we have one-hundred thousand gold for Hexblade Adanell’s adobe? I hear that he is leaving town—”

“Is this true?” a middle-aged woman with a feathered hat asked.

Sorath nodded—because some of these people would pay to run him out of town. “Yeah. I’m leaving.”

The auctioneer continued, “Let’s show our love and compassion as a community, yes? Once more—”

“Aye,” a man said, fingers raised.

The bubbled bearded man instantly rebutted, “One-ten.”

“One-twenty,” the hat woman said.

“One-thirty.” The old beard again.

“One-forty,” a young man in a silver-trimmed cloak said. He had studied at Greenwood, four years ahead of Sorath.

“One-fifty.” Old beard.

They kept like that into the mid two-hundreds before bids slowed and the auctioneer resumed his sales pitch: “We have two-hundred and fifty-five thousand gold for a fine two-bedroom family adobe that may be of great historical importance. This is an investment of a lifetime. Don’t let this opportunity slip by. Can we get the full asking price of seven-hundred thousand gold?”

The rain stopped. So did the passage of time. Heart slowly thumping, Sorath exchanged eye contact with a dozen faces he recognized. Some were curious about his adventure. Others were pitying. Most were trying to hide relief over his departure, and he felt like a beggar kneeling before the parents of his old rivals for a handout. Disgusting.

“Two-eighty,” a bald man said.

The old bearded man was slow to counter, “Three-hundred. Final bid from me.”

The auctioneer’s lips pursed. “Three. Hundred. Thousand. Gold. For the adobe owned by the first psionic in recorded history—a possible historic landmark. If this isn’t winning the Lottery, then I don’t know what is. We can do a second auction tomorrow evening if you’d like, folks.” He didn’t really believe any of that first half. His main motivation was his cut of the sale.

There were minutes of indecisive murmuring between families and friends, and during the second minute, Carrie’s father, a gaunt man, stood straighter with his chin lifted. “I’d like to place a joint bid between nine parties totaling three-hundred and sixty thousand gold.”

The auctioneer slyly rubbed his chin. His gaze meandered to Sorath. In his thoughts he asked, Do you accept? I don’t think you will get a better offer. In my honest assessment, this adobe isn’t worth half as much.

Sorath discretely nodded, but half of them saw the exchange.

The auctioneer said in a grim voice, “With pained reluctance, I must declare this dwelling sold for three-hundred and sixty thousand gold. Congratulations to the joint buyers, for you have made an investment of a lifetime.”

The next hour was a boring fuzz of signatures, phony smiles, handshakes, and trotting manasteeds. Sorath put on his best smile since they did just pay off almost half his debt as a community. Numerous tributes and fees reduced the sum to two-hundred and fifty-seven thousand gold, roughly—still an impressive sum for this pile of clay that was teetering on collapse. Some of that, not too much, was also going into equipment upgrades.

Carrie’s father was also generous enough to let him stay the night. One last night.

In his empty bedroom, he slept on creaky floorboards, tossing and turning under thunder and torrential rain.