“Why 50? Ten is average, twenty extraordinary. Thirty, and you’re a rare gem, forty, and you’re one a kind, one in a generation. Fifty and there won’t be anyone on your level again for a hundred, often more, years. Fifty and you’ll have reached the top, and can’t go any farther. Why 50, of all numbers?”

Oreanen Vaeinen

Prinner Wilholm was not a powerful man. He had never been a powerful man, or boy, for that matter. In his childhood, he had parents to guide him, and after their passing, his aunt guided him in his adolescence. Then he had joined various small jobs in the city, with various employers and managers to instruct and judge his worth. In his late teens, he had signed a contract with Dolvesk, and had a giving him orders. And even when the hadn’t been bossing him around, that irritating, smug Gailen had.

When he had been thrown before His Majesty’s mercy, thinking himself about to be jailed or executed, he had been a level 8 , all of his one or two levels in various Classes having long since merged into that one Class. He was expected to be level 10 or 12, but he had not been. He had been nothing.

And in so little time that it sometimes felt surreal, he had been thrust into a position of great power and control. There was an argument to make that, with all of the personal guards, plus Andrium and Oakchild, dead, and the generals off in the West, that he was the third highest ranking person in the city, behind Stillbottums and Devoleon.

Of course, he hadn’t ever been told exactly what the equivalent rank of a was in the military, but so far he had conscripted more than four hundred men, including dozens of minor officers. It was as he was establishing a temporary base of operations in a empty temple that a grizzled-looking man, uniform sharp as a razor, eye patch over his left eye, beard speckled with gray, approached him, frowning. “Soldier,” he said, putting one fist over his heart in a salute. “I’m Julias Tolsom, commander of the 1st Company. What with everyone higher ranking marshaled at Holst’s, I’m assuming command of the motley force you’ve assembled.”

Wilholm looked at him, silently, wheels turning within his mind. The Wilholm of a month ago would have taken the opportunity to step down, to yield power to someone more experienced, not trusting himself to be in a position of any power. But the Prinner Wilholm of the moment was not the Prinner Wilholm of the past, and, after a few moments, he asked, bluntly: “What level are you, Tolsom?”

Off-put by the man’s lack of referring to him by rank, the other man’s frown

deepened. “I’m level 22. Why’d you ask?”

“Because it’s strange to me, Tolsom, that you immediately assume you’ll be taking command, given that I outlevel you.” The level 18 smoothly lied.

“Bullshit. I’m getting an arcgem, boy, and then we’ll see what’s wha--” As he turned to leave, Wilholm had his blade out in two moments, pointed directly at the grizzled officer’s throat. The corner of the man’s mouth curled up, the blade an inch from his adam’s apple, and a rough chuckle escaped him. “You’ve got nerve, boy. .” Before Wilholm could blink, his blade was out of his hand, and in the ’s. “I respect nerve.” He went on, smiling. “But not when it crosses over into stupidity. You’re good at bluffing and taking command, but you got to learn how to keep ahold of it. Don’t worry; you’ve got the levels and the wits to be at least a Second Lieutenant, I can tell.”

He clapped Prinner on the back, then strode away, casually giving orders to what had been moments ago Prinner’s own subordinates. Prinner fumed with silent, burning rage. He was right back where he had been; the bosses were just higher-leveled and the jobs higher-stakes. He wouldn’t stand for it. Not for long.

Level 19 gained!

Talent — granted!

🟋

Stina Walsh put down her muffin, half-eaten, as she listened to the town crier. The , now a ? She had served the Throne in some fashion for more than six decades, yet neither she, nor her father, had ever served a . It had been a century and a half since a monarch had claimed to rule Esultare, and it had ended badly, as it always did.

Her visage, having become more relaxed with her son returned to her and her city becoming more in line, tensed, her eyes sad, but steeled. She turned to Collin, who was agape at the news, and said, bluntly: “I yield my position and duties fully and completely to you.” She heard numerous notifications ring in her head as Collin spun towards her, eyes wide, confused and panicked as notifications roared through his own mind.

She quickly strode away at a brisk, Collin scrambling to keep up with her. Despite her age and diminutive size, she moved quickly and nimbly, without faltering. She had little besides her clothes on her back, her wedding ring on her hand, and a blade older than Collin sheathed by her side.

“I won’t be coy about: I have, or rather had, precisely 30 levels in , which had included a merging of my previous Class. It feels almost like a trick, it does. Because those thirty levels will transfer to you, Talents attached. Or rather, a suitable number, as the Archons decide, will, based on your experience and aptitude. You should, at minimum, gain at least half that. Meanwhile, you won’t get any of my duelist Talents-- I’ll be keeping those. And my level will revert, but by how much we’ll soon see.”

Stammering, Collin said: “Mom, just slow down! What’s happening? Why so sudden? What are you even doing?”

She spun on her heel, giving him a loving, sorrowful look. Going in for a hug, she said, voice stern but melancholic: “I wish we’d had more time to reconcile. But I swore to never again let a sit the Throne. I will challenge him to a bout to the death, as is my ancient right, and I will try to slay him as he is now, before he is fully made mad.”

“But-- he outlevels you by at least ten levels, if not more now! You’ll die! It’s suicidal.”

She shook her head. “It might be, but it’s my duty. Besides. I’ll enjoy kicking that arrogant brat’s teeth in. I love you, Coll. If you decide to yield power, would you look after Lakeside, for a few days, before you do? If I return, we’ll sort things. If not… Well, you’ll have to sort things on your own.” She reached up to pat him on the shoulder, then broke away and strode away. “Stop her! I-- I order you!” Collin said, hastily trying to invoke his newfound authority. The gate guards, looking uncomfortable, blocked her entrance.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but the-- the ’s word is law. You can’t leave without his say so.”

Stina looked rueful. “You all seem to have forgotten who I used to be. Who I still am. It feels almost like cheating. Yet I earned every bit of it. . .” She leapt a full dozen feet into the air, over the gate, and landed without a scratch on the other side, then strode away, moving faster than anyone in the town could hope to run. She had been, and was once again, a . Her competitors had died off, and she remained, her title reclaimed.

In that moment, as she headed off to do the right, but not particularly pragmatic, thing, to be forty years younger.