(Dylan)

  Dylan awoke to the sound of the wind rushing past his ears. His head throbbed, and he wasn’t able to take a deep breath or move his right arm. Warm gelatin sat in his mouth. He spat out the crimson clot and looked around. The thick cloud of dust and smoke surrounding him left an ashy sulfur aftertaste as he tried to breathe.

  The good news was he didn’t end up on his back for the rest of the fall. But the bad news was he’d gotten too close to the ground to change his landing zone. Landing in the jungle would’ve been preferable; tree branches and foliage might’ve slowed down his approach. The ash clouded volcanic hellscape he was entering would have to do instead.

  The problem wasn’t in how fast he fell, that was manageable, but it was the speed at which he was being carried. He rocketed through the sky at an increasingly reckless pace, propelled by the transitional forces of the enchantment.

  The explosion had blown open the cavern network underneath, upending even the deepest layers of substrate to create the super-heated ash cloud. Like a hell-twisted blizzard, the ash rained down as tainted snowflakes accumulating in loose piles that left a thick layer of black powdered soil along the newly exposed floor.

  The ground rose slowly, eventually catching his feet. He tumbled and rolled across the loose piles of still smoldering ash, scorching his exposed skin. The soft, airy bed of earth was the only reason he didn’t die on impact from falling again.

  His body came to a stop, and he cried as his skin burned and blistered. Rolling onto his side proved too much for just one arm. He lay on his back, his cloak acting as a thin barrier between him and the hot black soil. He blinked away the tears and glanced up at the cloud of dust and ash around him. Not even the sun—just a dim circle in the sky—could pierce through it.

  He figured now was as good as any to take his last potion—if it hadn’t shattered and if he could get to it. Awkward positioning was only half the problem. Something was wrong with his ribs. He brought his left arm across his chest, reaching for the vial in his right pocket, but his lungs locked up, unable to draw breath.

  Dylan straightened out, able to take half a breath again. On the verge of hyperventilating from the pain in his chest and panic of not being able to take a full breath, he clenched his teeth tightly, forcing himself to focus. Unable to take a deep breath before reaching, he’d have to manage with a half lung of air.

  He grunted as he reached across himself again. The darkness crept in from the edge of his vision as he rifled through his own pocket. His fingers brushed against something smooth, but he couldn’t remember what else was in his pocket.

  The darkness grew, and he knew he was fading. Deprived of oxygen and frustrated he’d have to do it again, Dylan grabbed the object in his pocket, to clear the way for his next attempt.

  He tried to catch his breath but could only manage rapid shallow bursts—it took him a minute. Finally calm enough to think again, he held up the item in his hand. He let out a single laugh and winced at the resulting pain. It was the stupid healing potion he’d been looking for. Blood loss and asphyxiation left his fingers numb, which is why he didn’t recognize the vial in his pocket.

  Removing the topper while spilling none of the elixir proved tricky. ‘Next time,’ he thought as he struggled to push the topper off with just a thumb. ‘I’m getting ones I can open with one hand.’

  He took another half breath and held it as he poured the potion into his mouth. He was getting better at drinking while lying on his back; didn’t even breathe a drop this time. The potion quickly went to work, but between broken bones, internal and external bleeding, extensive burns, and all his other recent injuries, there wasn’t enough to mend everything. But the magic was smart, resolving his life-threatening wounds first.

  He still couldn’t move his dislocated arm very well, but it was enough to roll him over and get to his feet. While brushing himself off, he noticed the sticky amber residue on his right wrist where the grenade tried to rip off his arm.

  “Now what?” Dylan coughed as a tickle formed in the back of his throat. He found himself in a world of silence, ash falling around him like charred snowflakes. The temperature was blistering; any remnants of dampness in his cloak were long gone.

  He chuckled, remembering that Runemist promised anyone with a long walk home if they tried to blow up the beetle. Served him right for trying something so stupid. Now he had no water, no shelter, and no flak. The cavern in this area must have been sixty feet or more below the trees. All he saw was a cliff that disappeared into the hazy clouds where the tree line should’ve been.

  It became increasingly harder to breathe as the tickle in his throat grew, and every racking cough sent crackles through his still healing chest. Dylan’s body was telling him the air wasn’t safe, and he listened, wrapping his cloak around his face like a mask. He hoped that would be enough to filter out most of the ash.

  ‘Maybe there’s a ramp nearby?’ he wondered. He followed the edge of the cliff; it was his best chance to find a way out of the pit. As he wandered after the wall of earth, his stomach reminded him he hadn’t eaten before jumping off the ship to play hero.

  “I know. I know. Shush you,” he said to his grumbling tummy.

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  The area grew darker as he continued to walk through the loose ash. At first it had been a lifesaver, but now it was like trudging through a foot of snow—holding him back at every step. He found it easier to just drag his feet through the black soil instead of picking them up high enough to go over it.

  The dirt was still too hot to touch, but his boots made it bearable. Dylan couldn’t tell if Charles had enchanted them with heat resistance or maybe they had it from before, but, honestly, he didn’t care either way; he was just grateful to have them. His feet still sweltered as he plodded through the ash pile, and he wasn’t looking forward to the new blisters, but his other choice was to stand around, waiting to die.

  Dylan shook his head. “And waiting around isn’t my thing…” he said, chuckling. Distracted by his own musings, he didn’t notice the much thicker pile of ash directly ahead.

  “Ow!” he cried out, slamming his foot into a large rock hidden in the pile. “Mother f—”

  He stopped cursing as he noticed the uncovered corner of a dark box.

  “You’re not a rock…” he said to the box.

  A sense of familiarity clung to the dark container, but he couldn’t pinpoint why. Examining the exposed corner revealed it to be a medium-sized chest, a few feet wide.

  “What are you doing in the middle of the jungle?”

  The box didn’t respond, and ADHD declared that this was a mandatory sidequest. He needed to know what was inside. Looking around to inventory his options, all he saw was ash, soil, and more dirt. That didn’t leave him much to dig out the box.

  He held up a filthy hand, wondering if he could use his cloak to dig it out. The dirt wasn’t heavy or packed in, just really fucking hot. He pursed his lips to the side, thinking. He needed his cloak to breathe, only had one good arm, and wasn’t sure he’d want to wrap the cloak around his head again after using it as a makeshift spade.

  Out of ideas, he imagined taking his frustration out on the box with another kick, and then inspiration struck.

  ‘That’s it!’ he thought, grinning behind his mask. He was glad no one was around to see the obvious oversight—he could just use his feet.

  He lifted one leg and swung it up onto the chest, landing with a thump. It sounded hollow, and he’d be pissed if it was empty and just wasting his time. He balanced on one leg, doing his best to sweep the ash off with his other foot. It worked—sort of. While he moved the ash, most of it went up and over his boot to land back in place. This was going to take forever. He put both feet back on the ground and narrowed his eyes at the mostly buried chest.

  “Maybe if I…?” he said as another unsafe idea finished cooking.

  This time, he put his foot back on top of the chest, just like before, but tested his weight by leaning forward to see how much it shifted. It didn’t, and he added more weight until he was confident enough to stand on top of it. He did a little shimmy, and it only shifted a little, so he figured it was time to kick.

  This worked about as well as before, but kicking the dirt took less effort than awkwardly dragging his foot while he balanced on one leg. Eventually, he kicked all the ash off the dark chest. However, the “top” turned out to be the front, and the chest lay on its back.

  Dylan hopped back down and brought a finger to his mask, covering his chin. He pondered how to approach his latest objective in the sidequest, flipping the mysterious chest upright.

  Acting as a human plow, he pressed his feet close together and quickly shuffled them back and forth as he slowly lapped around the chest. It took a few minutes and more than a few laps, but he slowly unearthed the dark box.

  He kicked out from under the container to make room to tilt and then flip it upright. After climbing on top again, he’d planned to use his weight to rock the chest over, but it shifted much more easily and quickly than he expected.

  Dylan slipped off the chest, landing on the ground beside it.

  “Ow, ow, ow!” he cried out, scrambling to his feet to escape direct contact with the heat. Blistered, but not burned, Dylan brushed himself off as he examined the container.

  There didn’t appear to be a lock along the seam of the lid, but if there wasn’t anything keeping the lid closed, how did it stay shut? Maybe he could just push it open. He glanced down at his one good hand, already red from playing in the dirt. Shaking his head at another poorly cooked idea, he took a deep breath and quickly removed his mask to wrap it around his hand.

  The plan was to act fast, minimizing his contact with the hot surface to see if the lid would even budge. But going too fast was a mistake.

  He crouched low, slapping his hand on the lid, and leaned in with his weight to push up. The cloak’s fabric offered no purchase against the slippery, soiled dark chest, and he slipped again. His own momentum propelled him forward, and with nothing to stop him, his bare torso pressed into the box. His chest sizzled, he screamed, and a prompt appeared.

  Using his knees and good hand, he pushed himself off the box, but not before it left an angry red line across his chest. His body shivered in pain as he read the prompt.

  [Dimensional lock]: Container is locked. Would you like to override?

  [Consent] [Deny] [Cancel]

  “The fuck…?” Dylan groaned, finding it hard to read with searing pain covering most of his chest. “Sure, yeah. Open.”

  His hand hovered over his chest, trembling at the thought of touching it. He grunted when the System didn’t respond to his verbal commands, and remembered that he had to use his mind to choose. He mentally selected “Consent.”

  [Dimensional lock]: Overriding, wait.

  [Dimensional lock]: Override complete. Lock has been removed.

  Dylan heard the distinct click of turning tumblers, followed by a small thud, as if something had just dropped inside. Then the lid parted to reveal a small gap. Using his boot, he pushed the lid open to peek inside. A single unmarked leather-bound book sat in the box. It was much thicker than a regular book and reminded him of the old encyclopedias his dad collected. But there was something unsettling about the leather’s color and texture.

  He stared at the unmarked book, hesitating. “No way…” He leaned closer, squinting at the eerie leather cover. It couldn’t be.

  “Holy shit,” he mumbled into his cloak and grinned. “I think I just found the skill book!”

  His excitement quickly faded as he realized he was alone, lost, and had no way of getting home. He stared at the book and then at his cloak. Runemist specifically told him not to touch the skill book.

  ‘Breathe or carry the book?’ he wondered. Then he smiled. ‘Por que no los dos?’

  He draped his cloak over the book to pick it up, stifling his urge to cough. He shuffled it in his arms, wrapping it and bunching the excess fabric on top. The skill book was heavier than it looked and might be a problem if he had to climb out of the pit.

  ‘That’s a future Dylan problem,’ he thought, burying his face in the folds of the cloak to breathe again. ‘Now I’ve got to find a way out of here…’ He hugged the cloak wrapped book to his chest with his good arm. ‘Maybe I should keep looking for a ramp.’

  A confused voice called to him from behind, breaking the silence of the fog.

  “Dylan…?”

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