Jake swallowed. Maybe his mind was playing tricks on him. Fourteen years was a long time.

Gramok spat on the ground. “That is our glorious Divine Emperor.”

Pain grasped Jake’s heart. Divine Emperor. “Isn’t he… evil?”

“That’s one way of putting it. What the Divine Emperor wants, he takes. The Empire doesn’t bother with the wood elves much, but the rest of us? It is what it is, nothing we can do about that.”

Why? Why? Sure, he was a bastard, but evil?

A slender hand gently caressed Jake’s back. Cara’s hand. “Hey,” she said. “It’s okay—we’ll find out what it means. We’ll deal with it. It’ll be okay.”

“Deal with it?” He brushed her off. Platitudes weren’t going to fix this.

“It’s your father, isn’t it?”

His blood boiled. He clenched his fists. “I’ll deal with it, alright. Whatever it takes. He won’t get away with it.”

“Hey, hey, it’s okay. Jake, I get why you’re angry—”

“Angry? ANGRY?” Pressure pounded in his ears. She had no clue. She never did, about anything. “My father abandoned me to be a mass-murdering dictator on another fucking planet, but you get it. Oh, well, that’s okay then!”

Cara recoiled. Her gaze dropped to the floor.

His hands clenched and unclenched. It wasn’t her fault she’d never had to grow up. He shook his head. “I should have left you back at the village where you belonged.”

She looked up, her eyes wet. Her mouth opened, but she couldn’t even muster the courage to speak. Just an animalistic growl, and she stomped off like a child.

“Gah!” Jake slammed his fist against the table. “I need some air. Don’t even think about stopping me.”

Gramok nodded. “North gate’s closest. That way and take a right, try not to get lost. You want some backup?”

“… No.” He shoved his pack at the orc. “Be back soon.”

He left, his boots pounding loudly against the stone. Hopefully, Gramok’s directions were up to scratch. The drab gray stone everywhere was miserable enough without getting lost in it.

The fire in his chest burned hotter and hotter, itching to smash everything to pieces. When would the universe give up and find a new toy? His fists clenched.

Not here, not surrounded by short, terrified civilians.

He frowned. When had he stopped being a civilian? Yet another thing this damned world had stolen.

An armored dwarf slouched against the gate. “Sir, it’s dangerous out there.”

Jake clenched his jaw. “Good.”

“Have you been drinking, sir?”

“If only.”

A pause. “I heard what you did, for our soldiers. Thank you.”

Healing a few dwarves wouldn’t wipe away this stain. “I’m going to blow shit up. In here or out there—pick one.”

The guard shrugged. “As you wish. Open the gate!”

***

Cara paced. The maps still weren’t here, the booze was terrible, and Jake was out there, fighting alone again. Her fists clenched. He’d better not get himself killed again.

“Relax,” Gramok said, all smug because he’d found an orc-sized chair, “he’ll be fine.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know he incinerates goblins like nobody’s business.”

“When he can see them.”

He shrugged. “He’ll be back when he’s back. Besides, he has his… other advantages.”

“Not. Helping.”

“What’s the worst that can happen?”

Her chest tightened. Pain flooded from her lungs. Different pain, at least. “Kidnapped, dragged away—"

“He’ll be fine.”

She shot a glare at him. That’s what she’d thought last time. “Gah, what’s taking them so long with those damned maps?”

“If you ever get the chance, the archives here are incredible.”

An archive? Gramok? She tilted her head. The image refused to settle in her imagination. “I didn’t see you as the library type.”

“Books? No. Old buildings? Yeah. There’s always a story behind them, and that’s especially true for these archives.”

Cara pulled up a chair. No, too short. She glanced around. Would the tavern keeper judge? She perched herself on the edge of the table. “What’s their story?”

“It’s the Age of Heroes. Orcs and dwarves are feuding again—long story, don’t worry about the why—”

“Why?” She frowned. Was that a smirk she saw? “You’re trying to distract me, aren’t you?”

“Oh? I’m distracting you? Well, there’s a first time for everything.”

She punched him on the arm again, and his metal armor punched back again. Ow, ow, ow. “Not my fault there’s so many questions that need answering in the world!”

“Doesn’t that hurt?”

“What hurt?” Her smile faltered. “Maybe. A little. Totally worth it.”

“Uh-huh. Long story short, dwarves—incorrectly—think they can waltz in and steal mining rights from whoever owns the land.”

“Any chance they could steal ours?”

“No one wants the Deep-Forest, Cara. Anyway, Tarkath gets overrun by the orc army, possibly assisted by one or two Heroes. The dwarves, though, they’re not done. They fight a daring last stand. Why? To save the city’s archives. That’s why they built this place, a vault for their lost city’s knowledge. Might be one of the few archives left going from far back.” He waved his hand in front of her face. “Any questions, Cara…?”

“What’s taking them so long?”

***

“Enkir!”

The goblin screamed and turned to ash. Another jolt of adrenaline.

A second charged, knife drawn. Jake smirked and thrust his sword into its chest. Not quite a kill.

The creature’s dagger clinked against his Armor spell, barely enough to even register.

“Ronka!”

A blast of white magic shattered the goblin’s skull. The corpse crumpled to the ground.

600 XP received!

More pitiful XP from pitiful creatures.

Had he done something wrong in a previous life? Outcast, Hero, and son of a brutal dictator. Where did it end? He gulped. Would it ever end? Even death refused to save him.

His fists balled up. Especially Death.

Another tug on his mana. “Ronka!”

The blastbolt smashed against the stonework, spraying dust into the air.

Jake sighed and slumped against the wall. “I need a drink.”

***

What good was a tavern without decent beer? The only time Jake really wanted a drink, and it was this. Yet another sick joke from the world.

Cara put her arm around his shoulder. He brushed her off. This wasn’t her problem. Better she stayed away.

“You’re not like that,” she said.

Jake snorted. “Aren’t I?” Another gulp of sour, earthy beer. Why the hell would anyone brew mushrooms? Not even special mushrooms at that. “How would you know?”

“You’re not him, Jake!”

“Not yet.” Aching darkness bit at his insides. He hunched over his drink. Would he have turned out any differently?

“You help people. Maybe you need a push sometimes, but we all do! You’re a good person.”

“A good person.”

She rested her hand on his shoulder. He let it slide this time.

Words rose, stumbled over the lump in his throat, and fell back into the abyss. How to make her understand?

“I know you are,” she said.

Over a hundred years old, and still that naïve. He snorted. “Even if you’re right, how long for?”

“What do you mean?”

What the hell, she won’t remember, anyway. “Death gave me the choice—empathy for my enemies, or the Dispel effect. And you know what?” Pain stabbed at his chest. “I nearly picked the other way.”

Her face went blank. “Sorry, what did you say?”

“Nothing.” Whatever the System was, it would pay. “Nothing at all.”

She hugged him. “I’m here for you.”

“He used to say that, too.” What if he’d meant it? “I can’t sit here.” He stood up and swallowed. “I need to do something.”

Cara cocked her head. “Weren’t their casters fixing the main gate?”

“Yeah.” Jake shrugged. “I might as well do some good while I still can.”

He left. No point looking back. Keep moving, keep working, keep being useful.

That dull metallic hammering in the background could shut up already, but no. It got louder and louder. More carts full of stone and metal, pulled by a stockier version of donkeys. More dwarves scurrying around, not watching where they were going. More life, desperate to save itself. And for what?

Maybe they’d hold out today, tomorrow, the day after that. No matter how many dungeon spawn they slew, monsters always came back. The dwarves wouldn’t.

Jake bit his lip. Why couldn’t anyone else see what needed to be done? Defending themselves wasn’t enough. They had to attack. Eliminate the enemy, destroy the threat.

There. The main gate, or what was left of it, partially covered by wooden scaffolding. The roof was gone—five-foot-thick stone, ripped straight off. The same creature that had torn apart those soldiers? Hopefully. The alternative was worse.

This was the heart of the commotion. Dozens of dwarves with makeshift pulleys lifting blocks twice their height while dwarven-donkeys pulled in more stone on sleds. And there, three mages, casting Repair on the web of cracks at the base.

Jake’s gut twisted. No more than a week before the creatures respawned, then they’d be sat on a ticking time bomb. Rebuilding the gatehouse as it was in a week would be a feat, and that still wouldn’t be enough.

Yelling erupted. Hands pointed in the air. One of the pulleys. Rope fraying.

Dwarves fled the scaffolding under the enormous stone block. If it fell—

A rush of adrenaline. A tug on his mana. Hold (Maximized).

The stone jerked. His chest tightened, and he sealed the spell.

“Firkatara!” The white projectile hit the block. Magic shimmered over it. “It won’t hold long!”

Dwarven shouting left and right. The three mages lined up. White magic swirled in their hands.

Force magic. Three beams shot out, colliding with the stone block. Silence fell.

The block slid slowly to the side. Inch by inch, it cleared the scaffolding.

One of the mages shouted a single word. The block stopped.

He barked another command. The block descended, swaying slightly.

More barked orders, single dwarven words repeated and cycled.

Another mage shouted. It dropped faster, half-held, half-falling.

The huge block hit the ground. The earth shook. A fine mist of dust descended from the cavern roof above.

Held air escaped Jake’s lungs. No damage, no injuries. A success.

The dwarf who’d been barking the orders turned, pulled a hammer from his belt, and tossed it at Jake’s feet.

A tingle ran down Jake’s back. An unknown cultural gesture. Great, no way that could go wrong.

Magical runes were emblazoned on the side of the hammer. It had to be valuable. Jake forced out a smile. Was it a thank you, a challenge, or something else entirely?

The dwarf’s deadpan stare didn’t help, nor that ridiculously large beard. How was anyone meant to tell under all that?

And now everyone was watching. Perfect. Why hadn’t he read more about dwarves? Open palms fiasco part two, coming right up.

Mage Zelig, son of Roland

Level: 9

Options: Return the hammer, take it, ignore it, or do something crazy. Whatever he was supposed to do probably fell under option D, but “do something crazy” covered a lot of options. Good idea, bad plan.

The crowd kept staring. Didn’t they have better things to do? Apparently not. Time to decide with what little he did know.

Jake bowed his head. “Thank you. I require no payment.”

A flicker in the dwarf’s expression. A tiny tilt of his head. Shuffling in the crowd.

Wrong answer? Or the wrong way of putting it? Archaeologist’s Sight shrugged. If they stood staring at each other for a few hundred years, it might think about having an answer. Great.

Jake kneeled down and lifted the hammer off the floor. Some wear and tear, despite its quality, and the runes upon it. Signs of repair. Heavily used but well looked after. A craftsman’s tool. A family heirloom, perhaps? “A fine hammer, and a fine gift.” Jake held it up, offering it back. “It belongs in the hands of a craftsman.”

Diplomacy skill increased 0 → 1!

Zelig grunted, advanced, and reclaimed it. “Thank you, Jacob Williams. The rest of you slackers—check the lines, and back to work!”

Commotion resumed, and breathing came easily again. “I go by Jake, actually. You’re welcome. Anything else I can do to help?”

“Does a brugedror shit in the mine? What can you cast?”

Straight to business. Perfect. “Repair, Hold. Plus, any spells you need crafting.”

“Aye,” Zelig said, sighing, “and how much is that going to cost us?”

“Nothing.”

Zelig shook his head and laughed. “Sure, and I’ve got a myrellium pickaxe to sell you.”

Seriously? Jake’s heart pounded. “I’m here, I’m a Spellcrafter, and I want to help. That’s it.”

“No one crafts spells for free.” Zelig paused. “No hidden debts, no obligations of any kind?”

Was that really so unbelievable? “Yes! Completely free of any charge whatsoever.”

“Alright, then.” Zelig stroked his beard. “We have two Repair spells, one minor, one big enough that only old Luther can cast it. We need something time and mana efficient.”

“Consider it done. What else?”

The mage’s eyes lit up. “With a better Telekinesis spell, we could stop using those blasted pulleys.”

“I don’t know that effect yet. But, show me what you’ve got, and I’m sure I can figure something out for you.”

“Oh, now I get your game!” Zelig stiffened up and shook his head. “We have work to do.”

Heat rose in Jake’s chest. No, it wasn’t Zelig’s fault. Magic was power, something to be hoarded. And who’d risk their life crafting spells for free when they could get rich doing it?

Yeah. Who’d be dumb enough to do that?

Jake took a deep breath and put on a smile. “It’s not like that. Tell you what, let’s start with the Repair spells, then move on to any other spells I can make. If you want to stop there, we can stop there. Deal?”

Zelig’s eyes narrowed. He raised one fist in front of him, lowered the other, and smashed them together. “By the stone.”

Oratory skill increased 1 → 2!

Was that a yes, or a proposed method of execution?