Damian had a strange feeling of déjà vu as they stepped into the stern-looking building marked with a caduceus. The sight of the young woman behind the reception desk jolted him into realizing it was the same hospital he’d wandered into a few days ago. Or had that only been yesterday? The day before that? Even without the Saint’s Breath still threading through his veins—or the head injury—his sense of time was thoroughly messed up.

  Unlike before, the hospital’s reception room was completely empty, probably because it was well past midnight. The receptionist looked up, met Damian’s gaze, and gasped softly. A thin dribble of liquid light ran from the corner of her mouth. But that wasn’t real. At least, he was pretty sure.

  “By the Word,” she said, springing to her feet. “Bring him to the back. Quickly!”

  “Hi to you too,” Damian grumbled dreamily as the room spun around him and Konrad, spitting them through a doorway into a hall. The hall crawled past in turn, and then a smaller room swallowed them whole.

  Konrad laid him on a bed, and Damian winced when his head hit the pillow. It really was starting to hurt now. The receptionist, Konrad, and a third face he couldn’t place hovered over him. Everything was going fuzzy, each blink giving him one sharp snapshot before it smeared into blurry color. Their voices came from far away, muffled, but he caught bits and pieces.

  “Konrad, what did he take?” asked a voice Damian didn’t recognize.

  “Saint’s Breath,” Konrad answered. “It’s a hallucinogen.”

  “[Analyze Health]. By the Word, that’s...” The new voice hesitated. “That’s something new. Yours? Never mind. How long since he hit his head?”

  “Less than an hour,” Konrad said, his voice tight with concern.

  Damian cried out as his vision exploded into blinding light that stabbed behind his eyes. He curled up instinctively, but firm, gentle hands caught his wrists and pried him open like a clam. He knew they were trying to help, so he forced himself to relax.

  He was too dazed to follow the next exchange but caught the receptionist’s voice replying to something the new one said. “Yes, [Doctor]. Here—[Nurse’s Calming Touch]. It’ll be off cooldown before sunrise anyway.”

  A warm calm settled into Damian’s bones, easing the ache at the back of his head. He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. The pain was still there, but the skill had cleared some of the fog from his mind. Now though, the blindness was freaking him out even more. He’d traded the surreal calm of Saint’s Breath for the soft warmth of the skill. It wasn’t enough to completely smother his panic.

  “Damian, can you hear me?” the [Doctor] asked. “I need to roll you onto your side to look at your head.”

  “Mm,” Damian grunted, squeezing his eyes shut. He preferred the darkness to the warped blur beyond his eyelids.

  The same firm but gentle hands took his shoulder and hip, rolling him onto his arm. Damian groaned as pain erupted at the back of his skull, like his brain had turned to slush, sloshing around inside his head. Stranger still, he could feel his heartbeat in the ear crushed against the bed.

  “Head injuries look worse than they are, right?” Konrad asked, his voice wavering slightly.

  “Y-es,” the [Doctor] replied, though Damian didn’t like the hesitation in his tone. “But there’s a reason high-level [Warriors] would rather lose a finger than take a head blow. You can recover even from being stabbed through the heart. But lose your head, and you’re dead.”

  Damian whimpered, and the [Doctor] sighed. “You’re going to be fine, Damian—my apologies. I’m going to have Konrad use his [Sober Up] skill on you, then treat your injury. It might be uncomfortable, but it’s important you hold still until I’m done. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” Damian said quickly.

  “Okay, if you would, please?”

  “Right,” Konrad said, resting a hand on Damian’s shoulder. “[Sober Up].”

  Damian had thought his head hurt before, that the Saint’s Breath had mostly worn off and he was feeling it for real. But he was wrong. If not for nearly dying and being revived by a goddess, this would’ve been the worst pain he’d ever felt. His skull pounded like someone hammering at his temple, his eyes burning as if metal spikes were being driven through them.

  “Medium grade, and a dropper, please,” the [Doctor] said in a brisk, businesslike tone.

  “Yes, sir,” the receptionist—who must’ve been a [Nurse] given her skill—said. “Would you like me to assist?”

  A gentle hand probed the back of Damian’s head, and he whimpered as his skull gave under the pressure a bit in a way it definitely shouldn’t have.

  “Yes, please,” the [Doctor] said, then muttered, “[Deepflow Potion Application].”

  A moment later, the [Nurse] whispered, “[Sure-Hand Assist].”

  It had been years since Damian last experienced a healing potion, and it was just as uncomfortable now as it had been then. Whatever Nephret had done to heal him hadn’t been like this—that had hurt, like reliving his wounds in reverse. This wasn’t pain so much as wrongness: his skin seemed to crawl and stitch itself together while bone fragments wiggled through numb flesh to snap back into place.

  “You’re doing great, kid,” the [Doctor] said as he worked. Damian tried to ignore the sensation by digging his thumbnail into the side of his middle knuckle. It helped... a little.

  The whole ordeal lasted maybe two minutes, but Damian counted every breath.

  Finally, the [Doctor] exhaled and leaned back. “Alright, he’s all knitted up. Honestly, I’d like to keep him for observation for—”

  “Yeah, that’s not happening,” Konrad cut in.

  In the silence that followed, Damian reached up and touched the back of his head. His fingers came away sticky with blood—he hadn’t even realized he was bleeding. But the skin was smooth now, even his hair was back in place. There was no trace of the terrible sponginess he’d felt while the [Doctor] worked.

  “Yeah, I figured,” the [Doctor] said, his tone turning a little sharp. “He’ll need someone to watch him. My skills say he’s stable, but head injuries have a nasty habit of looking fine before turning bad later. Especially when... well, it’s a good thing you had your skill. I know the answer, but I have to ask, can I check you too?”

  “No,” Konrad said, curt and final.

  Why did the [Doctor] want to check him out?

  A hand settled on Damian’s shoulder, and he turned to find Konrad looking down at him.

  “Think you can stand?” Konrad asked, and Damian nodded.

  In truth, he was light-headed and a little nauseous when he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and put weight on them. But with Konrad’s steadying hand on his shoulder, it was manageable. His eyes still didn’t want to focus, but it was better than it had been a few minutes ago.

  The [Doctor] was tall, with short brown hair and long, thin fingers. Damian offered a limp hand. “T-thank you, sir.”

  The [Doctor’s] grip was surprisingly firm for such thin fingers. “Anytime, son. But maybe lay off the—ah—exploratory substances? Just because Konrad’s chasing a high doesn’t mean you have to.”

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “S’was my first time,” Damian mumbled, words slurring together. Why did the [Doctor] know Konrad was ‘chasing a high’? And how did he know Konrad’s name? Maybe he’d asked while Damian was out of it.

  Another hand caught his other shoulder, and Damian glanced over to see the [Nurse] steadying him from the opposite side.

  “Okay, I’ll help you to the door. That alright?”

  Damian nodded, and the three of them started back down the hospital hallway. He felt like shit, but at least he could walk with some help. As they moved, he heard the [Nurse] whisper something, but when he looked, her lips weren’t moving.

  “[Patient’s Ears Only]. Are you safe with Konrad? A simple yes or no, please.”

  “I’m okay,” Damian mumbled.

  Konrad squeezed his shoulder. “Yeah, you are. Almost there man.”

  “Are you sure?” the [Nurse] asked, this time drawing a flicker of reaction from Konrad. The skill must’ve only worked for a moment.

  Damian nodded. “Yeah, I’m feeling a lot better. Really.”

  A few moments later, they reached the lobby, and the [Nurse] stepped away. By the time Damian had hobbled to the door with Konrad’s help, she’d returned and pressed something into his hand: a small glass vial filled with cloudy, viscous fluid.

  “Here—it’s a stabilizer,” she said. “If he starts seizing or anything, it’ll keep him stable until help arrives. It won’t fix the problem, so make sure you get help if you use it. And if you hurt him…” her tone hardened, “I’ll find you.”

  Konrad pocketed the vial and nodded. “Trust me, I’m already beating myself up about this. It’s my fault.”

  The woman hesitated for a moment before nodding and stepping back. Then they were walking down the streets again. Or at least, Damian was stumbling, and Konrad was half carrying him. Damian wondered how Konrad had the stamina to haul him this far. Maybe it was a perk of his levels. He’d never said what his level was, but some of his skills seemed strong. Mid-twenties, maybe? Really, he had no idea except for the context of his family.

  He winced at the memory.

  They didn’t talk as they walked, except when Konrad warned him about a bump or step. Damian had to give everything he had just to stay upright, and Konrad respected the silence. One foot in front of the other—until, finally, they reached Konrad’s building. Climbing to the third floor was hell, but Damian managed.

  The moment they reached the room, Konrad steered him toward the small bed, and Damian nearly collapsed onto it. He vaguely remembered Konrad taking off his shoes, pulling the blankets over him, and then, darkness. No dreams. No time. Nothing at all until awareness returned in the monotone voice of the Great Game.

  >Class [The Chosen One’s Squire] Level 11 Achieved!

  >Skill [Aspect of the Chosen] Obtained!

  >Do you accept?

  Damian accepted the levels and the skill—his first capstone. Years ago, Mother Revna had taught him that every ten levels granted an especially strong skill: a capstone. That was why someone at level thirty was so much stronger than someone at twenty-nine, even though it was just one level apart. Level ten was a big deal.

  The memory of yesterday crashed into Damian’s awareness, and his eyes fluttered open. He lay in Konrad’s bed, wrapped in blankets and uncomfortably warm. When his arm brushed against something solid, he startled, realizing he wasn’t alone. Without thinking, he flinched, and Konrad’s eyes snapped open as he yelped and shoved himself away.

  Unfortunately, it wasn’t a particularly large bed, and gravity did what it inevitably does, sending Konrad crashing to the floor in a tangle of limbs. Sputtering and swearing, he untangled himself and scooted back. Despite everything that had happened, Damian couldn’t help laughing at the absurdity of it all.

  “You okay?” Damian asked, pulling the blankets tighter as he pushed himself upright against the wall. His head still ached, but only as a dull throb now.

  Konrad scowled, brushing off his shirt. “Yeah, I’m fine. Are you fine? Doc said you’re fine—but the [Nurse] said you might not be.”

  Damian opened his mouth to say he was okay, but Konrad kept babbling on before he had the chance to speak.

  “That’s why I was in the bed, by the way. I was going to sleep on the floor, but I don’t have a bedroll, and I didn’t want to just open your bag and take yours. Then I was worried you might seize while I was asleep or something, but it wasn’t like it was weird and you had your own blanket and—”

  “Konrad!” Damian half-shouted, finally cutting him off. “It’s okay. Really.”

  The usually confident, put-together Konrad paused, his face relaxing into something Damian thought was relief. He sighed, planted his hands on the floor, and pushed himself to his feet. When he met Damian’s gaze, his eyes were soft, distant, framed by the dark bags beneath them.

  “I’m glad you’re okay. I was really worried for a moment there. And it would’ve been...” His eyes flickered with something before he looked away. “It would’ve been my fault. No reason to beat around it—it would’ve been my fault.”

  Damian’s first instinct was to tell him it wasn’t his fault. But that... wasn’t entirely fair or true. In the end, he settled on something more honest, if less comforting. “I agreed to it. I accepted the risks when I said yes.”

  “Eh...” Konrad groaned, turning to a cabinet and pulling out flour, eggs, and oil. “I shouldn’t have pressured you. Just because it’s my thing doesn’t mean it has to be yours. Just because I’ve got a death wish doesn’t mean... yeah—you get it.”

  As Konrad started cooking—noodles, it looked like—Damian sat there, watching his back. He’d thought Konrad had been frustrated with him for being so angry, for judging him for not taking things seriously. Maybe he’d picked up on that judgment. But here he was, beating himself up instead. That didn’t mean he wasn’t still upset with Damian, but another layer had peeled away, and Damian was still struggling to understand the whole of him.

  “Can we talk?” Damian asked hesitantly. “About you, and your class, and what’s going on?”

  Konrad’s shoulders hunched, and he paused mid-task. Then he sighed, mixing flour and eggs without looking back. “Yeah, I guess. A promise is a promise. What do you want to know, exactly?”

  “Well, I was thinking...” Damian said slowly, stalling to buy himself time. He really didn’t want to fuck this up. “When I told you what happened, you just... took my word for it. You didn’t ask questions. You just accepted it, like you expected it. And then you didn’t want to talk about it, or even try to do anything. So... what’s going on with you?”

  Konrad didn’t answer right away, and Damian didn’t press. He sat on the bed, watching as Konrad slowly kneaded the dough; folding, pressing, flattening, again and again. After several minutes, he set the dough in a wooden bowl, covered it with a towel, and finally took one of the two chairs in the room, sinking into it like the weight of the world was pressing him down.

  “Look, it’s just... life’s been shit. Always has.”

  Damian shifted under the blankets. Konrad sounded like he had that first night, when he’d said he wanted to die high as a kite. Like a man already defeated. But Damian didn’t interrupt, choosing instead to wait until he was ready to keep talking.

  He didn’t have to wait long.

  “I dunno how to make you understand—well maybe I do. But I don’t want to insult what you’ve been through.” As he spoke, Konrad tapped his finger against the table in a steady rhythm. “What happened to your family was awful. I’m not trying to downplay that. But I’ll try to give you some context.”

  It took Damian a moment to realize Konrad was waiting for acknowledgment. He nodded.

  “I was given up at birth,” Konrad said suddenly. “My parents left me at an orphanage. They didn’t treat me great there, and nobody wanted me. So... I learned to fend for myself. I tried to be a good guy, I still think I am, but I was always punished for it. I’d step in when the bigger kids picked on the little ones, and we’d all go hungry for a day for fighting. Every time I tried to follow the fucking rules or do something right, I’d get punished for it. The [Watchmen] knew me by name, I swear. It wasn’t like I was trying to break the Word’s rule, but everyone expected a little shit like me to turn out a vagrant.”

  Damian’s brow furrowed. That was it? He wasn’t treated well as a kid? That was the whole explanation? That couldn’t be it. He didn’t want to be rude, but—boo-fucking-hoo. It felt like a childish reason to be happy dying on a whim.

  “Anyway, I applied to the alchemists’ guild. They said I couldn’t get in—near-perfect testing scores and all—because of my record with the watch. Tried getting work as a [Sailor] to get out of this shithole, but they wouldn’t take me without sea experience. Tried being a [Trader], but no one wanted to deal with a guy who had no connections. Got a loan, bought a cart and a horse... then they gouged me, and the [Loan Enforcers] broke my legs a few months later. Nothing ever fucking worked.”

  Oh.

  Damian wondered how he’d feel if everything—truly everything—had failed for him. He’d always had his family, the whole village of Bekham, behind him. Even if he wasn’t the most popular, or the strongest, or the biggest, they’d always been there when he needed them. But if he’d had none of that, if the world had always felt like it was out to get him... yeah. He was starting to get the picture.

  “Anyway,” Konrad went on, “the first thing that ever made sense was making drugs. It started as an escape, until I realized I was good at it. Made money, moved up in the world, got stable. But I knew it couldn’t last. It was against the Word, after all—sinning and all that. I kept waiting for it all to fall out from under me, but it just... didn’t. So, I figured I’d make the most of it while I could. Go out with some good memories. Until that stupid class. Until you showed up. Or until...”

  Damian swallowed hard. He hadn’t really considered that he’d be the one shattering [The Chosen One’s] world. He’d thought being assigned class would take care of that for him. But what if someone ignored the call? He was here insisting Konrad face the truth he was trying to ignore. Trying to force him to open his eyes and watch his life implode. Sure, he was trying to save Konrad, but he also represented the death of everything Konrad had.

  “I didn’t... think about it like that,” Damian said quietly.

  Konrad gave him a small, lopsided smile. “Why would you? You were trying to save my life. But I’ve been dead a long time, man—the world just hasn’t caught up yet. That’s the big thing. Guess I should just say it. I’m... sick. Found out a few months ago. Quest or not, class or not, god or not, I’ll be dead in a few months anyway. It was stupid of me to think, even for a moment, that I could build something that lasted. Honestly, the idea that a god’s supposed to come smite me? That’s the first thing that’s made sense in years.”