Nothing immediately tried to kill them as they entered the gate.

  Cole hated that his first thought was disappointment.

  The moment the stone threshold took them, the air shifted in that subtle way the dungeon loved. The torches were the same as before, pinned to the walls at even intervals, their flames steady and wrong. The corridor was the same faded brass stone and deep brown mortar, old enough to feel the history.

  Quiet

  Just the sound of his own breathing and the soft scrape of his boots.

  His shoulder throbbed every time his body moved the wrong way, which was often. The cut had stopped bleeding, at least that was something, but it still burned under his skin. His ankle was worse than he wanted to admit. It held him up, but it complained with every step, a pulsing ache that made it hard not to limp.

  Faelen walked beside him.

  He was still gaunt, still pale, still wearing what amounted to tatters, but his eyes kept moving. The elf’s head turned in small, practiced increments, checking seams in the stone, checking shadow pockets, checking the floor where the torchlight did not fully reach.

  Cole kept looking at the floor too. He didn’t want to be the guy who got speared in the foot by a trap he never saw coming.

  A few steps in, it finally hit him that he hadn’t even asked the obvious.

  “Are there traps?” Cole asked.

  As soon as the words left his mouth, he felt stupid. He kicked himself for just now considering it. In his defense, it wasn’t like he’d been given much time to consider anything. He’d been getting chased, stabbed, tackled, and nearly bisected since the parking lot.

  Faelen didn’t laugh at him. That alone made Cole like him a little more.

  “Not that we’ve encountered,” Faelen said. “At Tier Two, traps are relatively rare, but it varies rift to rift. Our rogue was good at spotting them, and the details on this rift told us there wasn’t any. We still used caution. And you should as well.”

  As if to prove the point, Faelen slowed and swept his gaze across a section of floor where one tile sat just a hair lower than the others. It could have been settling. It could have been a pressure plate. It could have been nothing.

  Faelen gestured with two fingers and angled them around it anyway.

  Cole followed, stepping wide.

  He tried to keep it casual. His ankle did not cooperate.

  “You were able to study it?” Cole asked. “You had information on it?”

  Since Cole had been dumped in here, the idea that someone could learn anything about a rift in advance felt insane.

  Faelen’s mouth twitched.

  “During a Convergence of a new world, rifts open wildly,” Faelen said. “Or at least they seem to. The Ethereal only has one predicting factor.”

  “It tries to kill you?” Cole said.

  Faelen made a sound that was almost a laugh. Almost.

  “Usually, yes. Contrary to how it sounds, it isn’t out of maliciousness.”

  Cole looked ahead, then down at the stone, then back ahead again. No monsters, at least they had that. His head still pounded, a heavy, deep ache that made everything feel slightly delayed.

  He kept scanning anyway, even though he doubted he’d spot a trap if it slapped him. Between the headache and the pain and the fact that his life had turned into some twisted version of Dungeons and Dragons overnight, his brain was barely keeping up.

  “So what,” Cole said, “you’re going to tell me it does it because it cares?”

  Faelen chuckled at that, quiet and tired.

  “Oh, no,” Faelen said. “Not at all. There are whole fields of study on this back in Alestaria, the elvish home world, but it does it to train you.”

  Cole slowed a fraction. “What?”

  Faelen’s tone shifted, patient in a way that made Cole think of a teacher explaining something for the tenth time to the kid who refused to read the assignment.

  “Yes,” Faelen said. “It was surprising when I first learned as a child. Study suggests that the Ethereal is attempting to, one and all, train us. For what, we don’t know, but it continues to throw challenge after challenge. It puts opportunities into the world, and you either advance, end up under the thumb of a stronger faction, or you die.”

  Cole grunted. He didn’t like it, but it fit what he’d seen. It wasn’t comforting, exactly, but there was some bitter relief in having a reason, even if it was a cold one.

  He kept walking. His ankle complained. His shoulder burned. He adjusted the way he held his arm so the cut didn’t pull as much.

  “The Convergence,” Cole said. “Why does that happen?”

  Faelen shrugged, the motion small.

  “Why else?” Faelen said. “It wants more trainees, or more fodder to train others. Either serves its aims. When the Ethereal converges a world, binding it to its rules and power, it changes the world in question. It scatters resources, opens rifts like this one, and even creates new rifts unique to the world in question.”

  Cole swallowed. Images flashed from the strip mall. The sky tinting wrong. The way the air had shimmered. The screaming. The kids at the window.

  “This does two things,” Faelen continued. “It makes the new world very attractive to others in the greater Convergence, and allows the Ethereal access to new recruits to train or to feed to others as a training opportunity.”

  Cole didn’t like the word feed.

  Faelen kept talking.

  “As to the latter,” Faelen said, “you’re given some protection. A full decade of it.”

  Cole blinked. “Protection?”

  If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

  Faelen nodded, then stopped again, staring at a particular tile ahead. It looked normal to Cole. Flat. Worn. Nothing special. Still, Faelen’s gaze stayed fixed.

  He gestured, and they walked around it.

  “Not sure if it is a trap,” Faelen said, “but better to err. Yes, protection. No other converged beings will be able to interact with your world.”

  Cole felt tension ease out of his shoulders for half a second. “So we’re isolated.”

  “Or, rather,” Faelen corrected, “they can, but it is very limited and usually only at the Ethereal’s direction and power. This prevents a huge faction, say Alestaria, from simply opening a portal here and claiming your world.”

  Cole looked over at him. “Your people would do that?”

  Faelen chuckled.

  “Absolutely,” Faelen said. “We’d enslave you, plunder your planet for its resources, use your women, and many other horrible things besides.”

  Cole stopped walking.

  For a second, he just stared.

  His brain tried to reconcile two things at once. One, Faelen had looked grateful when Cole cut him free. Two, Faelen just said, casually, that his people would destroy Cole’s world without blinking.

  Cole’s hand tightened, reflexively, looking for something to grip. A weapon. A crowbar. Anything.

  Faelen noticed the shift and lifted both hands slightly, palms open. Acknowledgement.

  “Yes,” Faelen said. “Horrific, isn’t it? I say this not to make you afraid.”

  Then, as if he was giving directions on a delivery route, he added, “Turn here, by the way.”

  Cole hesitated, then turned with him. The corridor bent left into another stretch of torchlight.

  Faelen went on.

  “The converged universe,” Faelen said, “all of the universes bound to the Ethereal are converged, is not a nice place, Cole Rourke. There is racism, there is slavery, and the strong rule the weak.”

  Cole kept walking, jaw clenched. His shoulder hurt. His ankle hurt. His head pounded.

  The conversation hurt more.

  “Granted,” Faelen said, “not all factions are this way. Some empires have formed just, polite societies. You could perhaps appeal to one, if your world gets a ruling faction established, to take you in once your decade is up.”

  Cole let out a breath through his nose. “And that’s the good option.”

  Faelen’s eyes cut to him. “In practice, I find their contracts just as good as slavery, merely with a polite edge.”

  Cole didn’t answer immediately. He was trying not to spiral. He could feel it, that rising panic that wanted to grab the wheel and yank him off the road. Everything was too big. Too many unknowns. Too many problems, and he was still bleeding in a hallway made of stone that shouldn’t exist.

  He held up a hand.

  “Okay,” Cole said. “Enough questions. I have so many more. I need to look at my notifications.”

  Faelen smiled amicably.

  Cole focused on the faint blink at the edge of his vision.

  A screen unfolded.

  YOU HAVE COMPLETED A TRIAL GATE.

  YOU HAVE DEFEATED AN ELITE.

  EXPERIENCE GAINED: 600.

  LEVEL UP.

  Then:

  LEVEL: 2

  ATTRIBUTE POINTS: 1

  SPELL POINTS: 1

  Cole frowned.

  It was strange, seeing it laid out so clean when the fight had been anything but. He could still feel the weight of the sword coming down. Still hear the grind of his boots on stone as his shield held, barely.

  Faelen watched his face.

  “I imagine you leveled, yes?” Faelen asked.

  Cole looked at him and bobbed his head once. “Yeah.”

  “Yes,” Faelen said. “I expected you would after defeating that Elite. You must tell me about your Title, as I suspect it is tied to why you’re far more power than you should be.”

  Cole gave him a look. “Noted. Later.”

  Faelen didn’t push. Not yet.

  “Anyway,” Faelen continued, “you gain a single Attribute Point when you level up, and usually you also gain a point related to your combat skills. Profession is the same, but levels independently based on experience gained by practicing said profession.”

  Cole’s brain snagged on one detail. “Combat skills.”

  “Warrior arts, for me,” Faelen said. “For you, spell progression. It differs by class.”

  Cole glanced down at his hands, then forward again. “And professions?”

  Faelen nodded. “Professions level separately. They are their own track. They reward practice. A woodcutter gains experience by cutting wood, and the more unique or difficult the wood, the more experience. Smithing is similar. Alchemy is similar.”

  Cole took that in, then grimaced as a pulse of pain lanced through his shoulder. He wasn’t bleeding, but his body was letting him know it was still there.

  He wanted to sit down. He wanted ten minutes where nothing was trying to kill him and nothing was telling him his world was about to get invaded by slavers.

  He did not get either.

  He lifted his gaze back to the screen.

  One Attribute Point. One Spell Point.

  He knew the Attribute Point was a joke for him. He didn’t get to choose.

  He focused and pulled up the character sheet. It popped into place.

  CHARACTER SHEET

  Name: Cole Rourke

  Race: Human

  Title: Black Halo (Mythic)

  Title Stage: I

  Class: Wizard (Locked)

  Level: 2

  ATTRIBUTES

  Authority: 2 (Active)

  Strength: Locked

  Dexterity: Locked

  Constitution: Locked

  Mind: Locked

  Willpower: Locked

  SPELLS (Tier I)

  Black Halo Lance

  Ashen Aegis

  Edict: Disarm

  SYSTEM RECORDS

  War-Deed: War-Proof Complete

  Cole stared at Authority: 2 for a moment.

  Two.

  It was nothing and everything. He could feel it, faintly. A heavier pressure behind his head where the halo sat out of sight.

  He didn’t get to allocate the point. The title had made sure of that.

  He willed the Attribute Point into Authority anyway.

  The sheet updated without fanfare.

  Authority: 3

  No fireworks. No dopamine confetti. Just a quiet click of a number becoming real.

  Cole exhaled.

  Then he looked at the Spell Point.

  That one was a choice.

  “What can I do with a spell point?” Cole asked.

  “You would get one, yes,” Faelen said. “I can use a point in warrior arts to increase the rank of one of my abilities. There are three ranks within every tier. Once you get beyond that, the Ethereal will give you advancement options when you hit Tier Two of that ability.”

  Cole filed that away. Three ranks within every tier. Good. Simple enough to understand without a spreadsheet.

  “Or,” Faelen continued, “you may spend that point to acquire a new spell. You may query the Ethereal to do that. Sometimes it gives you options, sometimes it doesn’t. Many prefer not to risk the chance and stick with what they have.”

  Cole frowned. “So you can ask for a new spell and it might just tell you to get screwed.”

  Faelen’s mouth twitched again. “In more polite terms, yes.”

  Cole rubbed at his face with his good hand. The dungeon air felt dry.

  “Are there other ways to get spells?” Cole asked.

  “Yes,” Faelen said. “Spell scrolls exist. The Ethereal sometimes rewards them, or they are imbued into items or weapons at times. Scrolls take study and time, usually, and involve mana manipulation.”

  Cole had no access to mana that he could see. No bar or little blue number. If he had it, he couldn’t feel it.

  Right now, he needed something that kept him alive.

  Variety meant options. Options meant he didn’t have to solve every problem with Lance and prayer.

  He focused on the system and willed the request into it, simple and blunt.

  New spell.

  The screen answered immediately.

  SPELL POINT SPENT.

  SPELL GRANTED.

  Then, a second line hit with that same cold, verdict tone.

  EDICT: NULL HYMN (TIER I)

  Cole’s stomach dropped in a good way.

  A tool that erased hostile abilities. Magic. Enchantments. Effects.

  He stared at the words.

  He could feel the name settle into his mind, right beside the others.

  Null Hymn.

  It sounded wrong in a way he liked.

  He swallowed.

  “If I had that earlier,” Cole muttered, “could I have just erased the runes on the knight?”

  Faelen looked at him strangely, but Cole waved his questions away.

  Cole stared ahead down the torchlit corridor. The dungeon was listening.

  He didn’t like that.

  Faelen kept walking, and Cole matched him, limping.

  A few turns later, Faelen slowed.

  “We’re here,” Faelen said.

  Cole looked up, forcing his focus off the screen.

  Ahead, the corridor widened. The torches grew closer together. Stonework changed too. Less random. More deliberate. The floor had faint grooves carved into it, lines that curved and met and split, forming patterns that reminded Cole of circuit boards and church mosaics at the same time.

  At the center of the widened space was a gate.

  Heavy. Carved with symbols of stylized vials, flames and bowls. The air in front of it felt different.

  Sharper.

  Cole’s shoulder pulsed. His ankle ached. His head throbbed. He could still taste iron in the back of his throat, leftover fear and adrenaline and whatever that knight’s blade had left in him.

  He looked at Faelen.

  “It’s time,” Cole said.

  Faelen nodded once, the motion careful.

  “It is,” Faelen said. “If you do not earn alchemy, you will not be able to brew what we need. And if you cannot brew what we need, I die.”

  Cole didn’t like the way Faelen said it. Calm. Certain.

  Cole turned back to the gate.

  The dungeon had stopped trying to kill him for a few minutes.

  That meant it was about to get creative.

  He lifted his chin and stepped toward the Trial Gate.

  It was time for him to learn alchemy.