A bright, blinding light enveloped Lucius. He felt his body collapse, as if every little cell was being broken down and relocated across time and space, but the sensation didn’t last for long. In the snap of a finger, his legs landed with a thump on something hard: marble. A pastel white marble so glossy that the gentleman could see his own reflection in it, and he was not alone.

  Hundreds, nay, thousands of people crowded around him in what seemed to be a grand throne room of colorful stained glass, columns, and arches. They were all fellow players, and the air soon filled with a great cacophony of confusion and panic, voices merging to deafening heights. Lucius could barely hear himself think, but the noise did confirm one thing: everyone was likely American.

  There were men with southern dialects, women from the east and west coast: Latin Americans, Asian Americans, African Americans, Caucasian Americans. Americans from all walks of life gathered here in this place, yet one common trait was shared between them.

  That trait was a deep-rooted trauma—the memory of a hell they could never hope to forget. It seemed Lucius and his party weren’t the only ones to have struggled.

  “... Lucius…? Lucius!”

  A familiar gruff voice came from behind. Before he knew it, Lucius was trapped within the tight hug of the affable Mister Bernardi.

  “Thank god you’re safe,” the old mobster said. “I was worried for a second after ya disappeared on me.”

  “Fortunately, It would seem our fates are still intertwined. I am elated to see you again, Mister Bernardi, but what of Miss Mili?”

  Right on cue, Mili’s head popped up from beside Marco. Don’tcha even think about countin’ me out! I actually found the big guy first - pretty easily actually considering he’s like a foot taller than everyone else.”

  With the trio reunited, they discussed their experiences with the waiting rooms. Marco and Mili had received fewer rewards than Lucius, mainly in stat points and coins, and though they each tried to ask their respective questions, they were similarly disappointed with a string of vague responses.

  “It ain’t all that bad,” Marco remarked, scratching his head. “At least we’re around some proper livin’ folks now. Time was I used to avoid crowds like these, but after wanderin’ around that god-forsaken maze, I’d even tolerate the devil if it meant having a good ol’ fashioned conversation.”

  Mili furled her brow and leaned in. “Huh? Didn’t catch that. Someone must be stomping on the damn floor with all this racket.”

  The noise was getting louder; it drowned out all within the room. However, something was different. The sound wasn’t coming from the players. It felt more orderly, more rhythmic, like the synchronized drumbeat of a marching band—thump, thump, increasing to a crescendo.

  The source laid not from within, but rather outside.

  Soon, a pair of wide doors parted with a loud creak, and the players all abruptly turned their heads.

  “Welcome, heroes,” a calm and worldly voice spoke out. “We have awaited your arrival.”

  An elderly fellow wrapped in long, flowing robes of white stepped forth to greet the crowd. He wore a large headrest that had the pattern of an eagle stitched in front, which made for a striking image, but the man himself expressed a more somber disposition. He moved in slow, practiced steps. He waved toward the people with a benevolent smile. Lucius knew it instantly: This was a holy man, one of considerable rank.

  Individuals dressed in full suits of black and gold armor quickly flocked to the priest’s side and guided him towards an altar at the far end of the room. The steel-clad warriors resembled the knights often fantasized in classic medieval literature, but to witness them in person was quite intimidating. They were no mere soldiers; each knight exuded a tempered discipline and an honed martial might. It was as if they embodied the very spirit of the blade: sharp, refined, and ready to strike at the slightest hint of danger.

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  Compared to them, the other players seemed no more threatening than a group of children. It was true that they had fought for their lives, but arms taken up in desperation could never match the prowess of a trained hand. Not so soon, at least.

  The rigid atmosphere began to affect the crowd. Some unsheathed their weapons, uncertain whether the strangers before them were friend or foe, but despite the clear hostility, the knights reacted not and maintained their stony guise.

  The priest clasped his hands together in a prayer, and bowed his head. Numerous eyes were upon him; they glared with both caution and distrust. Nevertheless, the man’s good-will never faded, and he welcomed them all as if they were members of his family.

  “I am Archbishop Turpin: Head Priest of the Sacred Order, proud member of the Twelve Peers, and devoted servant under his holiness, Emperor Charlemagne of Francia.”

  Charlemagne. Now that was a very curious name, for the Charlemagne Lucius knew had perished in the ninth century as a figure of legend: the Holy Roman Emperor of Germanic Europe. Tales of his heroics were collected in an old body of literature called the Matter of France, but historians regarded the stories less as fact and more likely highly exaggerated epics: similar to King Arthur in the Matter of Britain.

  Lucius always was fond of the classics. A gentleman had to be well read, after all, and admittedly there was a certain romance in those old stories that never failed to stoke his chivalrous soul. A story was still a story, however. As far as Lucius knew, there was never clear proof that the Twelve Peers truly existed.

  Was this the past, or an alternate reality altogether?

  “To you, valiant heroes who have answered our plea, I give my deepest respects,” the Archbishop continued. “I am not ignorant to the courage it must have required to willingly part from one’s home. Yet, all of you have gathered, without want or need for reward, unconditionally to aid us in these times of great trouble. I cannot express how honored I am to be in your presence, o’ God’s fateful chosen.”

  The Archbishop spoke with not a hint of deception. From the bottom of his heart, his gratitude was genuine.

  But even so, Lucius couldn’t help but notice a few discrepancies in his speech. The Archbishop seemed to believe that the players were here by choice, when that couldn’t be even further from the truth. Without want for reward? Unconditionally, as militants of some divine being’s army?

  Lucius wasn’t the only one to feel this way. To his right, a woman dressed in a firefighter’s garb raised her hand and waited to be called upon.

  “Do you have a question, the lady with brown hair?”

  The firefighter cleared her throat and smacked her lips awkwardly for a moment, before eventually responding. “Yeah, uh, I appreciate the compliments and all, but… what exactly are we here for anyway?”

  The Archbishop blinked, and then rubbed his brow. He looked absolutely baffled. “You do not know?”

  “Haven’t the foggiest.”

  “I assume that means you do not know. How… odd. Why would our God not inform you of your mission?”

  The firefighter scrunched her face. “If your ‘God’ is the one responsible for this mess, then I can’t say I’m very fond of them. None of us are. We don’t have a clue why we’re here, why they forced us into that hellhole called a tutorial, or what this mission’s even supposed to be.”

  The knights of this other world began to whisper amongst themselves. They didn’t take kindly to having their God be blasphemed, and soon, their once neutral demeanor quickly turned scathing. A dangerous glint passed through their helmets; if the situation wasn’t calmed, the chamber would turn into a bloodbath.

  Fortunately, the Archbishop sent a stern glare towards his retinue and motioned for peace. “It would appear there are inconsistencies in my knowledge. The revelation I received is much different than what you say, but that will not change our hospitality. I believe you have arrived here for a reason, so I hope to maintain friendly ties between our respective parties. I, and all else in this nation, mean you no harm. You have my word.”

  The players hesitated for a bit, still not fully trusting his words. However, slowly but surely, the Archbishop’s sincerity softened their guard, and they allowed themselves to finally relax after all the turmoil they had undergone.

  “For now, I invite you to take a rest at our banquet hall. No doubt you are tired after your lengthy journey, so I have already informed the castle chefs to prepare a grand feast. We may discuss more of our empire’s plight after we’ve sufficiently filled our bellies with food and drink.”

  The Archbishop descended from the altar and departed the room with the rest of the knights. Soon, people who appeared to be castle attendants came in and began to direct the players into organized lines. It was all quite fast and efficient; these aides were true professionals.

  “So, what’dya think of that Archbishop fellow?” Marco asked Mili. “You have a good eye for people.”

  “Hm… he’s like a big jolly grandpa,” she replied. “But I wouldn’t underestimate him. Dude looks like he can crack a skull with his bare hands.”

  “Well, as long as he’s trustworthy.”

  With no other option availed to them, Lucius’s group followed the crowd and made their way to the banquet hall. Perhaps there they could finally get some answers into this world’s quest.