During our investigations, we studied maritime lore. We learned that the water surrounding Miros had less viscosity than the oceans on Earth. The tidal forces of the four moons often rendered the surface too dangerous to sail. Giant waves and currents battered the coast as lunar conjunctions wrecked everything at sea. Even ships moored on the coastline couldn’t weather these events, so deep harbors and rivers became the continent’s only ports.

  By studying astronomy, we learn how the sun and the moons geocentrically orbiting Miros related to magic. This world’s satellites were large and moved fast. Their gravitational influence involved magic in that they never slowed or dislodged one another from their respective orbits. An unknown force locked the moons into permanent shells around the planet. Their pull on one another created irregular paths, making lunar events challenging to predict.

  Nautical astronomers weren’t superstitious soothsayers. They provided critical information to merchants, who used their prognostications to schedule and chart oceanic voyages. Accurate lunar forecasts became so valuable that an astronomer’s proficiency measured their worth. The further an astronomer could foretell celestial events, the higher the shipping industry regarded them.

  A relationship developed between magic, astronomy, and seafaring, and the city of Arlington established itself as the undisputed seat of power for all three disciplines. Its integral function in trade made magic profitable, and Arlington’s sailing institutions guarded their secrets. A trip to the southern city might be in order one day. The idea of learning maritime magic intrigued me.

  My research skill crossed a milestone while delving into an astronomy book. Though I had only reached level 4 in the game, my research rank hit 30. I’d been playing The Book of Dungeons for less than seven months. Rank 30 more than doubled my next highest skill.

  To put things in perspective, Charitybelle reached rank 11 in research. My frequent rank-ups in research became a source of irritation to her, so I downplayed news of my progress. I’d become proficient in finding books and skimming their contents. Because of my familiarity with writing, I worked ten times faster than Charitybelle, who still had difficulty distinguishing the letterforms.

  When I reached research rank 15 within a couple of months, it revealed an ability called Read Magic. Unfortunately, the library contained no magic to read. Even A Beginner’s Introduction to Applied Magic used the common tongue. I earmarked a power point for Read Magic if I ever found a scroll that glowed from Detect Magic.

  The frequency of my research rank-up alerts diminished over the next five months, so hitting 30 felt like a big deal. I checked the list of available spells to see if it revealed any new powers.

  Unfortunately, it hadn’t.

  I considered my potential spells. Arcane magic offered a telekinetic power called Move Object. It seemed like a fun way to play tricks on people, but casters could only move tiny things short distances. Mana Shield absorbed damage from nonmagical attacks. It might be critical for adventuring, but it wasn’t relevant to academia.

  Light magic gave me healing spells, including the tier 2 Rejuvenate, which revealed itself when I purchased Rest and Mend. My nature spell options remained unchanged, and my primal spells looked like variations of direct damage attacks.

  Lightning Bolt’s damage-to-mana ratio showed more potential and efficiency than the cantrip Shocking Reach. Having another attack would improve my burst damage capability, but I wasn’t sure of Lightning Bolt’s importance in the big picture.

  Hoarding power points became a tedious way to play the game, but the path of least resistance wasn’t a highway for thrill-seekers. Read Magic and Rest and Mend counted as abilities, not spells, so I changed my filter to separate the two.

  Inspecting my abilities menu showed the hidden treasure that my rank 30 research skill had unlocked.

  Usually, I could predict a power’s details from its name since they borrowed from familiar role-playing archetypes. Every gamer understood Lightning Bolts. Applied Knowledge looked like something new.

  I focused on Applied Knowledge to see its description. My jaw would have dropped if my interface hadn’t frozen me.

  It looked like a game mechanic intended to help seasoned players catch up on old, abandoned skills. By discovering it so early, I could power-rank everything. After rereading its description, I caught two caveats. First, I needed to avoid hitting rank 30 in any other skill, and second, this power would one day expire—but I didn’t care about either of these issues. I could control my skill acquisition, and after almost a year of nonstop research, reaching rank 30 in anything else seemed very high.

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  Applied Knowledge would help me unlock combat abilities or spells. I spent my second power point on it without reservation.

  This power gave me a sizable advantage over the other players. As Fabulosa, RIP, ArtGirl, and PinkFox adventured throughout the summer, their skill increases slowed around rank 6. The grind proved so great they focused on only a few skills to maximize their proficiency.

  By spamming spells within the safety of the university walls, I ranked higher than any of them in arcane and light magic. Applied Knowledge would triple my acquisition in everything, including combat training. When I told Charitybelle about my new ability, she suggested I pick up trade skills since no one in our group had invested time in them.

  At our usual table in the inn, I informed the gang that I had finished my research. After a round of congratulations, I quelled speculation about adventuring. “I’m going to focus on combat training and trade skills.”

  My announcement brought appreciable grunts and nods. The news about leaving research to take classes didn’t make a splash. I felt like a sociologist telling a bar full of seasoned cops I would begin fighting crime by getting a Ph.D. in criminal psychology. The gang showed polite support but not genuine enthusiasm.

  Since my brief adventures with them months ago, my friends had written me off as a battle buddy. Their only interest in my plans stemmed from questions about what I could do with crafting materials. No one expected I could make anything exotic, but they always needed health and mana potions. Perhaps my first trade skill would be alchemy, but the hefty price of gold pieces for an alchemy set prohibited its purchase.

  RIP, PinkFox, and ArtGirl reached level 10, while Fabulosa remained one level higher. Despite their inability to find kobolds or goblins, Charitybelle and I grew envious of their stories. Their equipment had improved, and their newest preoccupation involved pets.

  Familiar became the group’s favorite new power, although Fabulosa vowed not to take it. As their leveling slowed, power points became more precious. Each player could have one active pet at a time. Some pets gave their owners magical buffs, while others created combat opportunities. Thankfully, Familiars unsummoned into a puff of green smoke whenever monsters attacked them, so no one had to endure the five stages of grief over losing their furry friends. ArtGirl won the exotic pet contest with her lynx, Nigel, to whom she lavished attention. How could my newfound power, Applied Knowledge, compete with bugbear safaris or fuzzy sidekicks?

  Charitybelle told me about another way to use the pet-summoning spell. “Before Arty found Nigel, she used Familiar to remove bugs from her room.”

  “ArtGirl had an insect as a pet?”

  “No! To kill them, silly! She swept through my room, too. I hate spiders. When you cast Familiar, tiny nameplates appear over nearby candidates. You can see where spiders and flies are hiding.” She shuddered.

  “The game allows players to kill their own pets?”

  Charitybelle shook her head. “Not really. You can squash them—and they disappear in a puff of green smoke. You can re-summon them later when you’re outside your room and release them from your Familiar stable. In a way, it’s more humane than a flyswatter.”

  I accompanied Charitybelle to the military academy. While she enrolled in the advanced courses, I took the newbie classes. The basic course began with a premise I had already realized—skills, not levels, determined battles.

  Belden’s military academy instructors taught us to use bludgeoning weapons first because they were safer and simpler to learn. Clubs didn’t get snagged or stuck into opponents. They required a tighter grip, so there’s less likelihood of dropping them.

  I started with the fundamentals of weapon handling and soon developed a reputation for being a fast study with my tripled learning rate.

  Charitybelle rolled her eyes whenever she overheard an instructor or cadet compliment my aptitude. Within months, we took the same classes. I picked things up so quickly that I often helped other apprentices and became a popular tutor.

  I hated to admit it, but having my ego stroked seduced me more than I care to admit. I never had acclaim growing up in Atlantic City. Positive reinforcement made me want to study and practice harder. After picking things up quickly, I spent half my time helping others. Everyone’s gratitude inspired me to improve. Unlike the library, I didn’t need daylight to continue my studies. I trained into the evening by torchlight.

  I became a natural at every martial art throughout the summer and fall semesters. My classes covered shield maneuvers, dual-wielding weapons, slings, maces, spears, and blades. Archery class familiarized me with the game’s interface for ranged weapons. The game’s interface included circular lines that appeared on the ground, denoting maximum effective range. When wind affected missiles, the circles became ovoids, showing the difference between shooting against and with the wind.

  My understanding of piercing, bludgeoning, and slashing weapons progressed every day. I memorized the forms and stances for swords, spears, and shields. My footwork reached the upper echelon of muscle memory, and I sparred with three- and four-year cadets.

  I focused on ranking my dodging skill because I couldn’t wear heavy armor without suppressing my spells. But it stopped increasing at 15. When I asked the instructors what was wrong, most expressed amazement that my rank had gotten so high so soon.

  Then they gave me the sorry news that the academy couldn’t raise a cadet’s skills beyond rank 15.

  Typically, students graduated to the city guard before they reached 15, the academy’s highest teachable rank. Opportunities lured cadets away long before they reached their skills cap. Anyone who wanted higher ranks had to fight in actual combat or find a higher-level academy.

  In truth, the explanation wasn’t altogether unexpected. My primal and light magic had stopped increasing from spamming cantrips when I’d reached rank 15.

  My free ride in the newbie zone seemed to be over. The news felt like the game giving me the heave-ho into the cold, cruel virtual world. I’d squeezed every bit of advantage from the university, so I couldn’t complain.

  My growing battle skills unlocked a roster of combat maneuvers.

  Most role-playing games featured similar combat moves. The safest investments looked like those from the dodge skills, but I wasn’t sure how to balance my spells and combat powers, so I conserved my power points.

  I occasionally updated my adventuring friends on my progress in the drilling yard. As I developed a vocabulary for fighting, I worked my way into more conversations, and they listened with interest to my observations about battle stances and weapon techniques.

  Since my discovery of Applied Knowledge months ago, my stellar increase in skill ranks dampened our conversations about acquiring powers. I wasn’t sure if my meteoric rise made them jealous, regretful, or angry, but no one discussed their combat skill ranks anymore—at least not in my presence.

  I wasn’t overbearing about it. Driving another wedge between me and the others numbered among the last things I wanted to do.

  I avoided the topic until one evening at dinner. ArtGirl asked me directly about my recent complaints about Belden’s facilities. “C-Belle says you’re aging out of the academy. What’s that about?”

  “Oh, that? It’s just a newbie zone limitation. The highest combat skill you can train to is rank 15.”

  Fabulosa froze and leveled her gaze at me. “Wait a minute. You’ve got rank 15 skills?”

  I nodded and looked at everyone’s dumbfounded expressions that echoed my instructors’ reactions.

  RIP dropped his spoon into a bowl. “Man, do you realize that’s higher than anyone here? Are you sure you’re not misreading your character sheet or something? That’s higher than Fab!”

  Fabulosa didn’t look like she appreciated the comparison, so I clawed back a little humility. “Well, not all of my skills are 15. Half are still in the low teens.”

  PinkFox dropped her jaw. “Wait. What? The low teens? Those are your lowest combat skills? The teens!” She exchanged disbelieving looks with the others.

  ArtGirl shook her head. “Patch, my highest skill, short swords, is rank 13.”

  Fabulosa slammed her drink down. “That cinches it. We gotta have a contest. Let’s arrange a little spar in the arena and see how much you’ve learned. You reckon?” She didn’t look at her fellow adventurers to see if they liked the idea. Instead, she leveled her gaze at me.

  Would I accept her challenge?

  I crossed my arms. “This isn’t one of those things where the last two to shout, ‘Not it,’ end up doing something? You’re talking about you and me sparring?”

  Fabulosa grinned. “Challenge accepted!”

  The gang loved it and made drawn-out “ooh!” sounds. Support for the idea brightened everyone’s faces, making further discussion unnecessary.

  RIP grinned broadly at the idea. “Yeah, babe, I’d be up for that. I want to check out his moves. Blocking is my only double-digit skill.” He, too, fixed his gaze on me, looking to see if I’d back out of the proposition.

  My skills had grown higher than theirs. In some cases, I doubled their skill ranks. Everyone wanted to see what a rank 15, level 4 Apache could do, admittedly, myself included. If I were going to leave the newbie zone, I might as well test my mettle in a safe, controlled environment.

  I shrugged my shoulders. “Yeah. Let’s see what happens.”