After a last shove, twist, and pull, the iron bar dislodged with a high-pitched groan loud enough to wake a man, but still no Orcs emerged from the oily darkness. Still no polite introduction came from the old man, who was now silent.

A silent asshole who begged his god for an intervention then snubbed the help he’d been sent. Simply ungrateful. Part of Rowan wished to off him and get on with escaping, but adventuring was adventuring. You’d never know if someone was hiding valuable.

Rowan expelled as much air from his lungs as possible, held in his gut, and squeezed into the gap sideways. He swore he heard a rib crack, but his health bar kept rising steadily past the ninety percent mark. His internal injuries were nearly healed. But healed this quickly?

Well, Sortis Online was a game first and foremost.

As he stepped through, the oily textures evaporated. He now saw unhindered. His eye sight was noticeably sharper. 20/20.

No, better than 20/20. Under moonlight falling through a square window, he saw cracks on the stone floor in full detail without having to crouch. He saw tiny lumps and strands of dust tumbling in eddies of air in front of Gabrielle’s beautiful, concentrating face. Her iron bar was nearly cut.

And most of all, he saw a man inside the neighboring cell, curled in a loose fetal position. The man was younger than Rowan had assumed, but he was lanky—very lanky, struck with malnutrition and likely close to his deathbed.

Rowan whistled a low note. “Wakey wakey. It’s time for a chat, Mister…” Rowan eyed him straight-on, squinting, and mentally commanded for a details to appear as per beginner guides had instructed. A small box expanded above the man’s head.

? : Human (level 8)

Health: 100%

Too helpful. And only level 8? Not fit at all to lead a party. He must’ve come out of desperation for his son and led his kin to foolish deaths. How sad.

Rowan cleared his throat dramatically. “Mister Question Mark. A name fit for a noble, if I may say. Now, tell me right now why we should rescue your son. Where is he?” There were five cells in this jail. Three were now empty.

Mister Question Mark did not respond, though he was awake judging from his fingers moving now and then.

Behind Rowan, Gabrielle’s sawing concluded with a similar high-pitched groan. “Weeeee done. That was fun. Oh, I can see again. Ooooo, that’s a pretty moon. Two moons!”

Cheerful as ever. Rowan couldn’t help but smile. “Careful,” he said, “there’s a sleeping Orc right outside.” A desaturated greenish-brown chest was slowly rising and falling in the doorway.

She spun around. “Hmmm, that’s strange. I thought Orcs had more muscles.”

“I guess it depends on the Orc, similar with Humans.” Rowan shrugged. “Alright, Mister Question Mark. You have ten seconds to speak before we get going. Ten.”

“Nine,” Gabrielle chirped.

“Eight.” Rowan.

“Seven.” Gabrielle.

“Six.”

Mister Question Mark whined so, so pitifully. He wiped his eyes. Silvery-gray eyes. “My name is Zachery Benson, resident of Verdell Hall. My son, Janus, was taken during a raid by one of their Witch Doctors two weeks ago.”

“How old is little Janus?” Gabrielle asked.

“Nine years.”

“Two weeks ago?” Rowan blurted. “You absolutely sure he’s still alive? And why would they take him?”

Zachery looked away. “For food.”

It took a second for that to make sense. “The Orcs eat Humans.”

Zachery nodded. “Over the decades their numbers multiplied more than they could sustain, and their supplies dwindled, and they… developed a taste for our flesh… and blood. Especially that of our young.”

“Eeeeewwwwww.” Gabrielle made a gagging noise.

Rowan’s nose was wrinkled uncomfortably. The line between good and evil was clearly drawn in this game. Orcs—bad. Humans—good. A bit tripe but fun enough. “Alright, which direction is your son in?”

Zachery’s eyes flickered away for a split second. “I sense his magic in the opposite jail block.” He pointed through the window, his finger a tad shaky.

Wires sparked in Rowan’s head. “How are you able to sense his magic? You’re only level eight. Not much better than us. Detection Wards are mid-level skills.” The game guides had outlined a short list of invaluable survival skills that all classes were able to learn.

“I— I have a special skill. It’s called Soul Sense.” Zachery visibly swallowed.

“Why are you lying?”

“I’m not lying!”

“Can you sense our magic?” Gabrielle asked.

“Yes.” Zackery’s eyes closed. “You two…” He gasped. “You two both have great potential deep within!”

“Oh, wowzers. Ya can really tell we both have Dragonbound Fates?”

Zackery blinked. “Yes, yes. I can feel it. The dragonic power is overwhelming. The heat of ten suns brims through your eyes, Gabrielle. It is reminiscent of Aideon Windstrider himself. I once met him at the capital.”

And that was enough for Rowan. “Piss off. How stupid do you think we are? Cut yourself out, lazy ass,” he growled and turned on his heel. Only a Human could be so full of it. “Let’s go before they catch us.” Rowan stepped over the Orc guard’s arm with utmost care onto dry dirt ground. Yellow weeds lined the building’s edge.

“Liar liar, linen pants on fire,” Gabrielle sang and followed.

“Wait,” Zachery called. “Please, help! Please, I need to find my son! He’s all I have!”

“He’s probably Orc poop by now,” Rowan said over his shoulder, and the sleeping Orc stirred but didn’t wake. Thank the gods it was a heavy sleeper. Maybe they were all like that.

“Wait…”

Rowan kept on walking with Gabrielle in tow down the alley, bars of rusty iron held in their grasps ready to strike. Though they had never trained in martial arts, a hardy surprise whack to the noggin or a stab to a vital region would always work, and the Orcs looked to be just uglier, green-skinned humans with heavy jaws and oversized bottom incisors as in many other high-fantasy settings. Their architecture didn’t say much either, unimpressive. Muddy bricks. Typical.

This place didn’t appear to be a prison complex or a slave labor camp—not enough guards and far too many windows without bars. An immense building (maybe in the shape of a pentagon) towered two to three stories over the occasional oblong, all tucked behind an outer high-wall reinforced with manned towers spaced fifty meters apart. Rowan made sure to keep out of the moonlight, hugging the wall. The occasional hole or gap revealed arid steppes as far as Rowan’s eyes could see into the night—the Great Northern Plains. Torchlight flickered orange hues from within every other tower. This was a scout outpost or barracks.

The chatbox shook.

Gabby LeMort: Why do you think he lied?

Rowan LeMort: Who knows. Maybe an early onset of dementia. Or maybe he’s pathological.

Gabby LeMort: I think he was looking for something.

Rowan LeMort: What? In this desert?

Gabby LeMort: No, like the Orcs have something he wants, and he wanted strong adventurers to fight em for him.

Rowan LeMort: Maybe the Orcs found something buried here.

Gabby LeMort: Duh. Big things are always buried in deserts in games.

True that.

They passed an open door, Rowan peering inside hoping for some weapons and armor. Unfortunately, only crates, barrels, and baskets of vegetables sat stacked along with a cloth-wrapped bundle hanging from a rusty ceiling hook. His pulse thudded in his chest before he realized it was more than likely a human corpse judging by its shape and size. Zachery hadn’t lied about that part!

“Shit,” Rowan breathed and continued along the outer wall.

Gabrielle whispered, “Do ya think that was—”

“Probably.”

She laughed—quite loudly.

Rowan LeMort: Stop laughing. Try to keep quiet.

Gabby LeMort: I’m not laughing. It’s someone from up there.

He glanced at the pentagon building. Light was filtering through curtains.

Rowan LeMort: That sounded very Human.

Gabby LeMort: Kinda like me! Hehehe.

A cold shiver rode up his back as an image of Gabby-the-Orc assaulted his imagination, kind of funny actually. Sure, playing as an Orc carried advantages, but he wouldn’t wish such an ugly fate on himself or her.

Around a bend and then two blocky wells, a gate slid into view.

No guards?

This escape had been far easier than Rowan had imagined. But he was only a level one; it couldn’t be too challenging. He let go of a breath that his lungs had held for him.

As they approached the gate, deep masculine voices wafted down from high above.

“We should send a scout party, chief.”

“What have you seen?”

“Omens. Death. Fire.”

“Upon the clans? Or upon our foes?”

“My sight is unclear. I warn you out of our—” The Orc growled. “Our livestock is escaping.”

Rowan was already sprinting, kicking up dirt with each frantic step. The gate swallowed them, its metal teeth snapping shut, and a bell was ringing. Arrows flew from the nearest towers, missed by inches, one grazing Rowan’s arm and drawing enough blood to leave a dotted trail. He was hissing breaths, running through the burn, but the game’s reduced pain was easy to ignore, especially when hot adrenaline was pumping through his flesh and blood.

“Northward,” he barked into the wind as another arrow grazed his calf.

“Northward,” Gabrielle mimicked and giggled. She ran ahead. She was having the time of her life—and hadn’t been hit yet by using him as a meat shield. Lucky her.

They ran and ran and ran into the Great Northern Plains as fast as their stat enhanced legs could take them under the moonlight.