(Warning the first scene of this novel is told from the point of view of the Protagonist in the future. Some people do not like this. Some people hate this. Some people view this as a spoiler that ruins the tension for them. If you are one of these readers, I suggest you go down to the first *** and read from there. I removed the first scene, but immediately regretted and reinstated it.)

Chapter 1

Death, Reincarnation, and Disappointment

My grandchildren’s giggling laughter rang through the palace, echoing off vaulted ceilings and polished floors, easing away my frown and leaving a content smile in its place. Family, a good one, is the most precious gift you can receive in life. And I have been lucky enough to receive two.

A thought, a brief effort of will and mana, and my study door closed, cutting off the playful sounds of a happy life. Without the laughter the study’s richness faded. Luxury and excess covered every surface, but without joy it held no value. Gold, jewels, trinkets, and rare artefacts…you live long enough and all these become meaningless shiny baubles.

My gaze landed on the blue leather-bound book waiting on my old jade desk. My smile dropped to a scowl.

I sighed, scratching the back of my neck. “What is the point in being one of the most powerful men in the kingdom if I am too afraid of my wife to tell her I don’t want to do this?”

The opulence in my empty study sparkled, but offered no helpful advice.

I shook my head, made my way to the desk, and sat down, thumbing open the cover to the first blank page. New paper smell filled the room as I picked up my favourite fountain pen. I paused, looking at the pen. If I valued anything in my study it was this pen.

It was a gift from a friend.

The design appeared to be the same as any dwarven-made steel pen, —meaning beautifully etched, yet simplistic and functional. It was utterly unremarkable in a palace.

Unless you knew one small fact: the iron used in its creation was formed from the blood of an ancient dragon. That one detail made a simple pen into something extraordinary, utterly unique. Something not easily replicated.

And it was a joke.

And a very good one, by dwarven standards.

It goes like this. A plainly-dressed human walks up to a dwarf chief and addresses him as an equal. The chief head-butts him.

It’s funny because dwarves have trouble telling humans apart. They see our people so rarely that most of us look the same to them. They identify our station from the clothing we wear. So when a dwarf chief meets a man dressed no differently than an ordinary merchant who talks to him like an equal, of course he is going to head-butt him for his audacity. And of course, years later, when he needs to make a gift for that same man, his friend, he is going to do so in true dwarven fashion, with an utterly unique pen that looks no more impressive than something which can be found in any dwarven shop.

My smile returned.

After I was finished with this nonsense, I would go and see how the old goat was doing.

I began to write.

The first chronicles of Arnold Parker, as told by me:

As I recall my many exploits, I must admit one simple truth: the beginning of my tale is not overly unique. I was born in another world, another universe. We called my world Earth and the land the kingdom of Radian resides in America and Mexico. There was no inherent magic in my world, only that which we created ourselves, with nothing but our minds and labour.

Earth was a beautiful world. It was not perfect or easy, but we were making it into something extraordinary. I’ve often wondered what it might be like now, but alas, that is not why you are here. You are here because you believe this is where you will learn about my many legendary accomplishments.

Nevertheless, this is my story, and I will tell it how I prefer, so if we are going to begin this tale anywhere, it will be where I choose, and I choose to start at the beginning. Back before all the fame and glory, back when I was a simple farmer, back to the events that led to the creation of that damned awful song that has plagued me since it came into my life.

Yes, this is the story of a song.

That song.

I know you know it. There isn’t a child over five in any of the eleven kingdoms that doesn’t know it by heart. And I know you’ve gotten drunk and belted out the words along with the children during a threshold party or festival. Everyone sings Silly Arnold. It’s as well known as the Chicken Dance or Macarena in my own world.

And I could honestly live with that if that was all it was. But would you like to know what really pisses me off about that song? It’s not the ridiculous words or the silly nature. It’s not the fact it has made my life a bit of a joke. It is the fact that it has earned me more fame than anything else I have ever done. I’ve checked my logs, and none of my other accomplishments come close.

It is utter bullshit.

So, you are not going to read what you want to read until you learn the truth behind the song. Now, I will admit the truth makes me look like a bit of an idiot, but I was young, so possessed many of the worst qualities of youth, and I would rather look like an idiot than the alternative.

So we are going back to the beginning, back to before I was incarnated, back to when I was only late for a tournament.

***

Sweat trickled down my back, soaking my shirt, as I squeezed my way through the overcrowded bus to the rear door and slapped the bell. The ding caused everyone to scowl. We were all late for something, cursing the Houston public transport system.

The bus slowed to a stop. The door hissed open, allowing a wave of hot summer air to rush in, destroying what little progress the air conditioning managed to achieve in the past few minutes.

The space in front of the Waller Convention Centre stood empty. The crowd of two thousand who brought tickets had long since entered. A massive Warlord’s banner hung above the entrance, rippling in the breeze, and reflecting the Houston sun.

I leapt onto the sidewalk and started running for the players’ entrance to the right of the main door, knowing the place from past tournaments. My worn trainers pounded out a beat as I sped across the hot concrete. The only thought going through my head was…fuck, another curveball.

A more perfect analogy for my gaming career probably didn’t exist. Being late for my last tournament summed it up nicely.

A few years ago, I might have been angry. However, the bus breaking down was just another curveball life had thrown my way. I had been standing at the plate so long that striking out didn’t faze me anymore. If anything, the curveballs made me more resilient. You have to be when your pro gaming career spends nine years on the edge of a home run without ever quite taking that final step which pushes you from semi-pro to pro.

If you don’t become resilient, you break down or become one of those basement trolls who live with their parents and spend their free time watching professional matches, yelling at their computer screens, deluding themselves into thinking they could do better. The only difference between those guys and those washed up high-school athletes is they never got laid as much.

I’d seen it happen to my friends. Charley, Max, Don—one by one, our old team’s lack of success drove them away. They went straight, got real jobs: mechanic, programming, a male nurse. Yeah, we all gave Don shit for that.

Now it was my turn to go straight.

My turn to let go of my dreams.

My new team, if you could call us that, was third in the line-up. The second teams were already facing off and halfway through their match. I could hear the commentator through the live stream on my phone. The delay was about ten minutes behind, and if I didn’t get inside in the next few minutes, we would forfeit.

I needed this win.

Not to go pro, that dream was as dead as a hooker in a Vegas hotel bathroom. No, this win was to pay the bills. My university tuition was covered. I’d always been bright, so I’d earned myself a decent scholarship even at twenty-six. But I had other expenses.

Expenses the wealthy parents of the high school kids I was coaching promised to cover if I could make their little assholes place in the top three. If they failed, I was looking at weekends of flipping burgers. Five grand wasn’t much to some people, but it would keep me in ramen and TV dinners for the next year, and by then, my accounting papers would qualify me for work that didn’t require manual labour.

I reached the bottom of the stairs and took them two at a time, holding out my player pass. “Arnold Parker, I’m in team Archomundo,” I shouted to the overweight security guard in front of the door.

I ran most days to keep fit. So the little run for the door hadn’t left me anywhere close to panting and my words came through clear. The guy, only a couple of years older than me, who had been mildly concerned by my speed, immediately lost interest, going so far as to step out of my way, waving me through.

As he stepped aside, a small blonde cosplay girl, wearing some sort of white robe with gold stitched runes came into view. She’d hidden behind his bulk, her eyes downcast as she muttered under her breath, blocking the player’s entrance.

“Coming through,” I shouted, not wanting to slow.

The girl remained in place, muttering. Something about her presence triggered my inner nerd instincts, telling me she was in character, the way hardcore cosplayers loved to be. She was just a kid, not even old enough to be in high school, so she was probably just playing a game with people, testing their nerd credentials.

I smiled.

My sister Sophie was the same at her age.

If I could remember who she was cosplaying, maybe I could say some sort of phrase and she would get out of the way. She was definitely a side character from one of the newer fantasy anime. Any of the older ones and I wouldn’t need to think about it. Her character’s name sat on the edge of my tongue, which annoyed me more than her being in my way. There was a time I could literally name any character any cosplayers were impersonating at any con, but the last few years I’d been missing more and more.

I had to face facts.

I was getting old.

I didn’t have endless hours to waste watching anime.

I reached the top of the stairs, and the name failed to appear. I slowed to a quick walk, marching up to the girl, intending to squeeze past since I couldn’t remember who she was pretending to be.

I turned side on and began to squeeze by. “Pardon me…argh—”

The girl’s palm slammed against my chest glowing with a nebulous green light. There was a flash of pain as the muscles around her hand constricted. The pain doubled and then doubled again. I felt my heart beat, once, twice, and then I was falling.

The security guard stepped through the girl, making her vanish like a mirage, concern engraved on his features. His lips moved, but no sound came out. And the world got smaller and smaller.

***

I absently scratched at the tattoo between my new man boobs, trying and failing to adjust to the body that Damella had forced my soul into, as I continued to vent. The last thirty minutes were like striking out at an endless supply of curveballs while riding a roller coaster blindfolded. “So, let me get this straight! In an attempt to call back a spirit from the afterlife and resurrect your universe’s version of me, she somehow ripped my soul out of my body and shoved it into the dead body of your universe’s version of me,” I shouted, glaring at Damella, the young acolyte who’d been standing in the doorway in my world, and was now standing next to me in my apparently new one.

The girl blushed a brighter shade of red, matching the colour of the silk altar cloth I’d quickly wrapped around myself after rousing and discovering I was naked. She dropped her gaze and clutched at her acolyte robes, which I’d mistaken for a cosplay outfit, nervously balling them between her fists.

Varla, the archbishop of whichever god’s temple I was in, nodded her head, still fiddling with the magical ring she’d slipped onto my finger that allowed us to communicate.

Varla was a few years older than me, early thirties, and gorgeous enough to almost distract me from my anger. She was on the tall side for a woman, almost six feet, with dusty blonde hair tied back in a bun, and soft, intelligent blue eyes. It was mostly her ornate white and red robes that gave her a presence of authority. “That’s basically what seems to have happened, Arnold. It is a complication of the resurrection process.”

“A complication of the resurrection process”—that was too delicate a way of saying that Damella had killed me. I turned to the giant golden serpent on the white marble wall to my right, trying to distract myself while I counted to ten. Maybe they worshipped it. Maybe it was just a symbol like the cross is to Christians. Right now, I didn’t care. I was trying to calm down.

It didn’t work.

The foreignness of the symbol made me angrier.

This curveball was a little bigger than the ones life usually hits me with.

I wanted to shout, scream, swear, and vent my frustration. The sight of the girl made me angrier than I’d ever been in my life. This was too much to deal with. The ramifications of the archbishop’s statement was...was not something I could face this second. I felt like I was drowning and anger was the only thing keeping me afloat.

A small growl escaped my mouth. My hands began to shake. “You know, up until about an hour ago, I would have told you there is no good reason to hit a child.” My fist came up. “But I’d never been killed by one before, so what did I know?”

The small acolyte cowered, but she did not run. I sat there, trembling with fury, angrier than I’d ever been, but she was like ten. And I wasn’t about to hit a ten-year-old, no matter how angry I was, even if she had accidentally killed me.

I forced myself to lower my fist and grip the edge of the altar until my knuckles turned white. I took several slow, deep breaths, counting them out, trying to force myself to relax.

Varla calmly reached down and removed the thin wooden cane hanging from her belt and offered it me. “First of all, Damella is thirteen, and that makes her a legal adult; otherwise, she could never have started her apprenticeship with the temple. Secondly, if you are planning to beat her for killing you, temple regulations require you use a cane. In the past, we’ve had too many priests and priestesses a little too eager to lay hands on our young acolytes.”

I stared at the archbishop, confused. Her tone was far too calm. “Wait, you want me to beat her?”

The archbishop shrugged, not at all concerned by my anger. “She is going to be punished for her actions, and whether I do it or you do it makes little difference to me.” She turned to the girl whose eyes were glued to the cane. “Your instructors have been too lenient, Damella. They gave you permission to use this altar for minor rituals. You used that permission to sneak a dead body in here and attempt a full resurrection. Now, we must deal with the results of your actions, actions which have irrevocably changed the trajectory of someone’s life. You will find no more chances, no more special treatment. Today, you face judgement. Today you receive the most severe reprimand I am allowed to issue and it is honestly not enough after what you have done…so prepare yourself for punishment.”

The girl didn’t protest. She didn’t deny her actions. She moved forward and placed her hands upon the altar bending forward slightly, not bending over like they used to do in Catholic school, more like how people used to stand when they were flogged. Her body trembled as she bravely resigned herself to her fate.

The archbishop stepped forwards and brought the cane down across the girl’s lower back. Whack! Damella shrieked. Three more blows followed in quick succession, one on the back of the thighs, one on the middle of the back and the last across the shoulder blades. Whack! Whack! Whack! The blows were so quick the girl didn’t have time to inhale before crying out, so only breathless whimpers followed.

The archbishop turned and held out the cane, offering it to me again. “Would you like a turn? Or should I continue?”

I stared at the girl, trying to feel pity for her, trying to give myself a reason not to take Varla up on her offer. None came. All I felt was anger, anger that kept my head above the water, anger that denied the reality of my situation.

I didn’t even get off the altar. I grabbed the cane and brought it down across Damella’s shoulder blades with everything I had.

Whack!

You have caused 1 bludgeoning damage to Damella.

I dropped the cane, losing what little semblance of self-control I’d managed to retain throughout this ordeal. “Ah! What the hell? There are words floating in the air.”

“Oh, dear,” Varla said. “Judging by your reaction, you don’t have damage prompts in your world.”

The words began to fade.

I turned to Varla.

She was frowning.

She’d explained some of the bare basics about my new world, like the fact that it was magic that brought me here. That was intriguing but not enough to distract me from my anger. However, this new bit of information caught my attention in a way the rest hadn’t. “Wait, did you say ‘damage prompts’?”

“Yes.”

“Does that mean you have health?”

She nodded. “Of course.”

“Does that mean you can level, get stronger here?”

“The short answer is yes.”

I expression softened as I stepped away from the altar. My emotions were suddenly at war with each other. Excitement was trying to smoother the angry inferno inside me. I picked up the cane. There was barely any weight to it. My gaze landed on Damella. Her small body was leaning against the altar quivering. Tears were running down both cheeks. Excitement fought hard, but didn’t win, and my anger didn’t lessen.

Whack!

You have caused 1 bludgeoning damage to Damella.

***

The archbishop had left me alone in her study. It was filled with comfortable leather chairs, several white marble bookshelves, and a large white marble desk. There were more of those golden sun serpents on the wall, but few other decorations, besides a small wine rack and glasses.

I’d gotten in exactly three swings with the cane before the archbishop took it back. The excited grin that suddenly appeared on my face, no matter what it looked like, hadn’t been some sort of perverted enjoyment. Yes, I was excited, but not for what was going on—well, not for that part of what was going on. No, my excitement was for the damage prompts. Each strike elected a point of damage. And each point of damage created a little prompt.

I’d nearly fainted when Varla confirmed that I was in a universe with video game mechanics. A few more quick questions to the archbishop and my hopes were confirmed. Not only could I level, but there were also monsters and dungeons.

I was so giddy with mad excitement that my anger fled. I’d barely paid attention to the crying girl as the archbishop continued to strike her in what seemed like an endless stream of punishment. Each new answer Varla gave created another question and another exciting answer.

I was living every gamer’s dream.

I was going to get to be a wizard, or maybe a spellsword, or perhaps I’d become a barbarian. No, probably not a barbarian—getting hit with a cane looked like it hurt, and claws and swords would likely be a whole lot worse.

A fit of crazed giggles escaped me. It shook my body and left me breathless. I didn’t care. I hadn’t felt this great since I was a child, back when sugar and friends were enough to leave me floating.

Some part of me knew the feeling couldn’t last, that reality would catch up with me. I ignored that little voice, squashing it down into a corner where I didn’t have to listen to it.

I smiled and opened my interface again, using the method Varla taught me. It was so easy. I only needed to think and there it was.

Name: Arnold

Class: Pending

Level: 0, 0%

STATS

Health: 100

Stamina: 100

Mana: 100

ATTRIBUTES

Strength: 10

Endurance: 10

Dexterity: 10

Agility: 10

Constitution: 10

Intelligence: 10

Wisdom: 10

Charisma: 10

???

TITLES

Incarnate:

People find you 500% more interesting.

MARKS

I was still opening and closing the interface when the study door opened. The archbishop walked in, with a gorgeous, midnight black cat at her heels. She crossed the room to the wine rack, selected a bottle, and opened it. She poured herself a glass. Then she took a seat behind her desk, placing the bottle down without offering me any.

She finished the glass in a single swallow and then poured another. “Serpent above, this mess has me pulling my hair out.” She flicked her gaze to me. “I’ve been thinking about your reaction back in the temple. Am I to understand you are happy with your current situation?”

“I’m excited and that’s not close to the same as happy,” I said. “Why?”

“Circumstances like yours are rare, but they do happen. It is standard practice to offer those in your situation the opportunity to be sent back to their universe. However, even if your body is alive, there is less than a 1% chance I will be successful without another cleric to receive and reintegrate your soul into your body.”

I lost some of my excitement. “You kill people in other universes regularly enough to have standard practices for sending them back?”

She took a sip of wine. “No. It is very rare for a cleric to have the power to pull a soul from a living body. Usually, people in your situation have recently died in their universe. Their soul is in transit and accidentally mistaken for their counterpart. However, like I said that is not always the case, and several centuries ago, there was a woman, Morgana, who was also taken from her universe while alive. She made it her life’s work to return to her world. She succeeded in developing a safe and reliable method, which forced the crown to pass Morgana’s Law, mandating the temple offer any in her situation the opportunity to return. So I have to make the offer.”

“Less than 1% chance at life. No thanks.”

She took another sip. “At least you aren’t an idiot. Now, what do you want to do about your murder?”

I leaned back and crossed my arms, losing a bit more excitement. “What do you mean?”

“Damella killed you. She may not have done so intentionally, but the result is the same. I’m not sure how your world works, but in ours, that can be considered a crime. Would you like me to inform the city guard?”

The last of my excitement left me. I hadn’t actually thought this far ahead. “What would they do to her?”

The archbishop took a long swallow, almost draining her glass of wine. “She’s from a powerful family, but the law is the law. She didn’t murder you in our world, so there is no chance of her going feral, which means this would be treated as an accidental murder through negligence. At the very least, she’d receive twenty-five years of hard labour.”

Damn!

“And if you don't go to the guard?”

“She’d remain here to continue her training, but I would take a personal interest in her. She certainly won’t be performing any more resurrections.”

“Let me think about it,” I said.

I was quoting my father. He’d always say that when something threw him. No matter how hard you pushed him, he wouldn’t make a decision right then and there if he didn’t feel ready to. It was one of the more useful tricks he taught me. Right now, I needed more information. “What‘s going to happen to me?”

Varla stifled a yawn. “That honestly depends on your decision. If you choose to go to the guards then I’m going to have to go to the wife and children of the man whose body you possess and tell them that though you look like the same man you are not. There will be a fair amount of yelling and a lot of tears, but eventually, they will understand and have to move on. You might choose to keep in contact with them or you may decide to go your own way. It will be up to you.”

“And if you don’t go to the guard?”

She leaned forward and smiled. “Well, that’s a little more interesting. Your arrival has the potential to solve one of my problems. You are what we call an incarnate. As an incarnate, the law requires our temple to pay you 1,000 silver pieces to help you survive in our world. If you are frugal, that is enough money to live on for three to five years without needing to work.”

“Why’s that interesting?”

“It is interesting because I am currently trying to hide a familiar from a demon lord, and as you have no connection to anyone in our world, and are not attached to the temple, no one would suspect you or come after you if you bond with him.”

I frowned, pausing before replying. “Why would I do that?”

The cat that had followed her inside leapt up onto the table and looked me up and down before rolling his eyes—which looked weird on a cat.

“Do you honestly believe this simpleton can grasp the complexity of the topics involved in this conversation?” the cat asked. His voice was deeper than its size should have allowed. He flicked his black tail, then sauntered over to the wine bottle and casually knocked it over with its paw.

After what had already happened to me today, meeting a talking cat only made me blink. Your brain can only take so many reality-altering surprises before it gives up, throws on its jacket, and heads out to buy a packet of cigarettes. I’m sure it would come back at some point and sort through this mess. I’d probably freak out then, but for now I was simply too confused to be shocked by any new surprise.

The archbishop glared at the cat as her wine spilled across her table. At least it was made of marble and not wood.

Varla picked up the bottle and poured the rest into her glass, still glaring at the cat. “He is the best option you have. And he actually needs your services.”

The cat leaned over and began lapping up the wine. Then he looked up and sighed. “Oh, goody. Another despot desperately in need of my genius. I so look forward to teaching him how to pick turnips. How can I refuse such an opportunity? I will—”

It was the way that he said pick turnips that made me interrupt their conversation. “Um, what do you mean, ‘pick turnips’?”

The cat groaned. “See, he does not even know what a turnip is.”

“I know what a turnip is,” I growled, not liking his tone. “I just don’t know why you think I’d be picking them?”

“Turnips, pumpkins, carrots, squash; I do not know what sort of level zero crop you will be planting, but it will be one of those, and I do not wish to be a part of any of it.”

“Neither do I, I hate gardening.”

The cat started to chuckle and then laugh. Finally, he fell onto his back in utter hysterics. “Oh, it is a farmer that does not like to garden. How quaint.”

I turned to the archbishop for a better answer. “What’s he talking about? Why does he think I’ll be gardening?”

Varla frowned, pressing her lips together. “You do realise you’re a farmer?”

“No, I’m not even close. I’ve been on a farm exactly three days of my life and I’ll happily not add any more to that.”

Varla’s face fell. “Oh, dear…let me try to explain. You see, I’m what you would call a cleric. That is my class. It is also my profession. My mother was a cleric and my father was a cleric. And my children are clerics. Your class is the farmer class.”

I swallowed. “No, I don’t have a class. It’s pending.” This hadn’t come up in my questions. “That’s because I haven’t chosen one, right?”

Varla shook her head. “It’s because you haven’t reached your first level. The body you currently reside in belonged to a farmer before he died and lost the experience he gained throughout his life. That means you will be a farmer.”

“Can I change my class?”

The cat’s chuckle returned to a full-body laugh.

The archbishop sighed. “Classes are hereditary. The only individuals who receive a class not inherited from one of their parents are adventurers. Everyone else must reach level 100 in their current class and acquire a second class.”

I could see the pitcher winding up. I’d gotten everything a gamer wanted so here was the curveball. “How hard is that?”

She shrugged. “A farmer does it in our kingdom a couple of times a year. I myself am level 74. I’d be higher, but I chose a quiet life of teaching rather than demon banishment.”

That didn’t sound too bad.

She looked like she was only a few years older than me. Their world hadn’t seen pro-gaming, the endless stats and power gaming sessions that could give someone an edge. Back home, I’d been our team’s tactician, which meant I was better than most at learning how to bend and break the rules. If she could reach level 74 by her age, then someone with my experience could do it in a whole lot less time. I could handle spending the next few years leveling my way to 100. And a 1,000 silver pieces would certainly accelerate the time frame. I could accomplish a lot in three years if I didn’t have to work.

“You didn’t tell me why I should agree to take the cat.”

The cat stopped laughing and hissed. “Who are you calling cat, human? I am a familiar. I am a being of power, intellect, and presence, and you…you dirty little cretin, should worship the ground I walk upon.”

Varla sighed. “Familiars are a living library of knowledge, this one more so than usual as he belonged to a wizard who was a couple of centuries old. He exists to help. It is in his nature. You could not find a better teacher to help you navigate your way through our world if you tried.”

“And all I have to do is agree to help hide him and not press charges against Damella?”

“Yes.” She stretched out her hand toward me, flashing me a very nice smile.

Archbishop Varla is offering to bestow her familiar’s mark upon you. Would you like to accept?

Yes/No?

I stared at the prompt for several seconds, undecided. There was opportunity here. Varla was giving me access to vast amounts of knowledge and learning. However, there were also risks involved. This strange talking cat was being hunted. She hadn’t outright stated it, but I got the feeling this was the sort of enemy most couldn’t deal with. “Demon lord” wasn’t exactly a phrase you would use to describe something that anyone could easily vanquish. However, she truly seemed to believe that we could hide from it and that it was the best option.

I wavered back and forth, but eventually accepted. It was as easy as focusing on the word and thinking Yes.

Congratulations, you have received a Familiar’s Mark.

Familiar’s Mark.

Level: ???

Effect: ???

I frowned, confused again. “Hey, why doesn’t it show an effect? I’ve got an effect from having the incarnate title. Why doesn’t this one do anything?”

The cat sighed. “It’s because you are an intellectually challenged farmer, not a wizard. Your class was never supposed to have access to my kind.”

The archbishop’s smile became a grin and she clapped her hands together happily. “Excellent, it worked. Now, Arnold, I have a good idea for a safe location where I can send you both. Would you like me to organise transport for you? It will draw less attention and the temple will cover the cost of travel.”

You are going on a journey and Archbishop Varla has offered to organise and fund this journey for you.

Would you like to fast travel?

Yes/No?

I chuckled at the prompt. Fast travel was one of the most cliché aspects of video games. You couldn’t play a sandbox RPG without running into it. The communication ring had to be glitching, mistranslating the words. There was no way this prompt was accurate.

I selected yes, just so we could move the conversation forward.