It was a dark room with nothing in it but two cinema screens on the sides. The left showed Lizzie riding Papa Allinder’s back and making joyful noises; to the right was a dark field covered in bodies, blood, spears and arrows stuck in the mud or corpses. Clouds covered the sky; ravens circled above, waiting for the last movements to subside before feasting on the dead.

  Shaking, Papa Allinder took an unconvincing battle stance, preparing his staff.

  A man appeared, slowly stepping forward. Majestic but eerie at the same time, covered in ghastly tattoos, metal threads embedded in his body, and a white fur mantle on his shoulders. As he closed the distance, surrounded by a cloud of snow and cold, a terrible sentiment of dread spread in Papa Allinder. “This challenge is simple.” Choose. Life or death,” the apparition commanded, spreading his arms to point at the images.

  “Y-you m-mean the s-screens?”

  “Yes. Life or death.”

  The elderly man let out a bitter laugh. “This can’t be so simple… I need to know more.”

  “You are right. What is life? What is death? You have a Class now. Your son called a favor from a friend to return you the favor of giving him a good life. Do you know what it means?”

  Trying to contain the shiver in his body, Papa Allinder shook his head. “Why don't you tell me?”

  “A wise answer. A Class is the most precious thing on Earth. It’s up to the Classed to help your planet survive the Awakening. You’re a Sage and a good one, and magic users are rare. We can afford squeamish people around. Make up your mind: embrace or reject your new nature. The left screen shows a normal life. I take your class back and give it to someone more worthy, but you have a few more years to enjoy your family. A peaceful death, remembering your late wife, who died at a young age. You never loved again until you met Rowan, a son she would have loved as her own. The right, you embrace your Class. Maybe you die in battle; maybe you live to two hundred. It’s a risk, no guarantees.”

  There was no hesitation from the elderly man. He nodded with energy. “Right. I want to be able to protect my son and his family.”

  “We'll see. Power changes people. In fifty years, maybe you kill a bandit just to bed the grateful innkeeper or let her be ransomed if she’s ugly. Do you confirm your choice, yes or no?”

  “Y-Yes.”

  “You have a probation time of a year. Kill a thousand sentients, either monsters or humans and save the same number. Begone.”

  Gasping, Papa Allinder found himself back in the square. One of the padlocks on the gate broke into pieces.

  “Thank goodness,” Rowan rushed to hug him, and Cora joined. “Was it hard?”

  The elderly man's shaking hand grabbed his shoulder, supporting himself on it to stay on his feet. “I c-can’t talk about it now…”

  Goblidog Wurf, son of Howl and Barks, was the happiest of monsters. His tiny mind couldn’t comprehend how someone could love him so much to raise him from the dead. The Paladin was a Saint. No one else ever had shown him any sign of affection. Muhmma Fenrri, his master, was kicking his butt every other hour. He was cannon fodder and knew it. All his spawn-litter but him had been killed in suicide missions. A new master was needed if he aimed at a continued existence.

  What delicacies could a new master like the Paladin feed him? Heavenly treats, for sure. Maybe real dog food, not some meatless boar bones boiled for two hours in a soup.

  Now, he knew he had angered the Paladin by humping his leg. Humping was reserved for mating, but it was hard to fight against the burning in his loins. A leg was the second-best after a bitch. But he had heard the Paladin preaching forgiveness to his comrades, so there was still hope.

  Nevertheless, Wurf's plans to correct his mistakes and be adopted were in jeopardy. The Paladin was about to enter some dangerous dungeon floor. Goblidog Wurf had a good smell and good eyes. His prospective master was afraid. The Paladin was sweating, checking his grip on the one-handed sword every second.

  The decision was made quickly: He would prove himself in battle and gain enough clout to be adopted. So, as his next chosen master advanced toward the strange wooden gate, he rushed and touched it at the same time. Then, they were in another place. A room with many pillows and sofas. Laid on them stood a strange creature. Two big globes on her front, mammaries, a female of sorts.

  And instantly, the possible future master wobbles on his feet, drops his sword, and approaches the sofa, hands first, aiming for the mammaries. Was he blind? Couldn’t he see the artifice? The deceit? The creature reeked of bad Mana, a fake, a construct. She had claws instead of fingernails, fangs, and wings dissimulated in an illusory wrap. A Harpy.

  The Paladin, his tongue out, salivating, reached and started to fondle those false globes, shaking his head to the right and left. There was some… strange bulging appearing in his pants… And the monster was preparing to strike, claws at the ready.

  Goblidog Wurf jumped forward, his fangs and jaws snapping around the fake female’s throat. She screamed. The Paladin screamed. Wurf screamed. The harpy trashed, trying to get rid of the Goblidog. The Paladin trashed as well, in panic. And then, victory. The monster disintegrated into specks of light. And reward.

  You have leveled x 60. You are now level 80. Your INT stat has been automatically raised to 10, so you can allocate your APs yourself. You have been assigned as a Paladin’s Familiar and are receiving a new class.

  The Paladin screamed anew, and they were out.

  When Hubert was thrown out of the Gate, Rowan was in his way and had to catch him in his arms.

  “I don’t wanna talk about it! I don’t wanna talk about it!” the priest screamed, wrapping himself in his cloak and shaking his leg to get rid of the Goblidog, who was hanging on for dear life.

  “Dude, I don’t give a shit!” Rowan shoved the man away. “Leave me be, and take the weird dog with you! Marry, be happy, make kids together, for what I care.”

  Shaking his head, he touched the gate, hoping for the best. If his Papa and the weirdo had survived, he could do it too. A slight squeeze in the heart; apprehension, not for him, but for Isla. There was something in her eyes he couldn't get, and he was too afraid to scan her without her permission. He touched the gate absent-mindedly and arrived in a martial arts training room, like those he had used in the town.

  “We finally meet, Rowan Allinder.”

  “Uhuh,” Rowan said in a neutral tone.

  “You, of billions of humans, attracted my curiosity foremost.” The tall man talking was muscular, his skid of a golden hue, dressed in a suit of armor that appeared embedded in his skin, and there was no doubt in Rowan’s mind about his identity. The Warlord.

  "What do you want from me?" Rowan asked, keeping his voice deadpanned.

  The man started to walk in a circle, with Rowan in its middle, talking slowly. “Once upon a time, the Galaxy was a wonderful place. One beautiful culture stretched everywhere. My story is not about that time. I was born long after that civilization collapsed, and Barbarians roamed everywhere. Demon Lords, Wild Dungeons, and Towers slain entire planets in sick games. A group of Heroes arose, battling against the tide. They exterminated the Barbarians, killed the Demon Lords, cleared the Towers, and grew in power and knowledge. Finally, they were able to input spells into the Mana itself, creating the System. What do you think they did next?”

  “No idea,” Rowan shrugged. “Retired?”

  The man stopped in his tracks and faced the Count. "Retire, they did. They were so powerful that their mere existence threatened their achievements. So, they ascended in a special dimension, timeless, ageless… Now, who do you think I am?”

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  A hypothesis emerged in Rowan’s mind as he furrowed his brows. “One of them, gone rogue and imprisoned in a Dungeon?”

  The Warlord let out a short laugh, jerking his head back. “You’re half right and half wrong. I didn’t go rogue. Retirement wasn’t for me, so I stayed behind. But there was a price to play. Power corrupts, and I had Admin rights over the System."

  “So that's why you were imprisoned in a dungeon?” Rowan asked, grimacing.

  The Warlord shook his head. “I wasn't imprisoned. I became a Dungeon. I am the gate outside, and this place, and this person you're talking to simultaneously.”

  Rowan's jaw slacked. “What? You're kidding me!"

  "On my honor, I had not transformed you into a kid," the Warlord said.

  "Sorry, just a human expression. Really, a dungeon? Err… Can you be… challenged?” The question, albeit hesitating, had a hint of determination.

  "AHAHAHA!" The Warlord roared, bending in laughter and slapping his knee. He came forward and grabbed Rowan's shoulder, speaking loudly in his face. "I like you, Rowan Allinder! Yes, you can challenge this Dungeon. It’s what you’re doing at this very moment. However, clearing it comes with a special clause, I'm afraid. Whoever beats me in Extreme Mode takes my place, and I ascend.”

  Rowan creased his face, disappointed, letting out a long sigh. That was not what he had hoped for.

  “Hm,” the Warlord grabbed his chin after crossing his arms. “I didn’t think you were the maverick type. Do you like challenges so much?”

  “I want you out of my way,” Rowan stated. “You’re toying with us for your own amusement, and I cannot accept that. A fifty-fifty chance of instadeath if we don’t accept the quest? Maybe taking you out of the picture is worth the sacrifice of becoming a dungeon.”

  “You are mistaken,” the Warlord shrugged. “I do not toy with you. I stayed behind to help the worthiest warriors better themselves and protect the legacy I and my friends built. For the last decade, I have traveled on the Traipenent of my own volition as a training dungeon. Then we crashed here… Earth has much potential, so I might stay here for a while.”

  “What kind of help is blackmailing us into this challenge?” Rowan sneered, feeling his patience running thin.

  "Your temper’s temperature’s raising," the Warlord scoffed. “You should learn to keep your anger cold. It suits your abilities better. The System, not I, decided about the dice roll. It represents the chances of your people dying to the dungeon boss.”

  “What?”

  "Believe it or not, I’m helping here. I might have lost my System admin rights, but I have its ear. Enough talking. We’ll spar, only melee weapons, no armor, perks, or magic. Shields are allowed. I'm obliged by the Oath I took to fight fairly, and I will lower myself to your level. This is the Easy Mode, so I'll rezz you if you die. If you survive my onslaught for thirty seconds, I'll give you a free lesson. Prepare yourself. In three… two… one.”

  Rowan had his armor already on. Activating his visor, he called a half-spear and a shield to protect himself while the Warlord dismissed all his armor except a loincloth. The man was now armed with a greatsword. A Barbarian, if Rowan had to guess a class.

  Then, there was no more time for thoughts. The Warlord charged at him swinging, and he was fast. Barely avoiding the flourish, Rowan plunged ahead to get his opponent in the guts. Twisting his body, the Warlord shapeshifted the greatsword into a saber. Rowan barely survived the cut, protecting his head with the shield. The opponent’s weapon changed into a knife, trying to go around the youngster's defenses. Turning the shield with its margin toward the Warlord’s face, Rowan tried to hit it but failed, as the man let himself fall down and dodged, getting back at him in the next second, now armed with a gladius.

  Thrusting didn’t help; the Warlord caught the tip of the spear with his edge in an oblique trajectory, deflecting the hit and gaining enough momentum to come for a thrust toward Rowan’s gut. The youngster twisted his body, too, letting the spear go and throwing a fist. It connected with the Warlord’s hand, the man protecting himself, albeit groaning. Rowan received a deep cut on his torso before they pushed themselves from each other to get more distance before charging again.

  The most terrifying thing was that he could feel the Warlord had no superhuman strength or skill. As promised, he was putting himself at the same level as Rowan. It was the difference in knowledge that counted.

  The Warlord gestured toward the spear on the ground, inviting Rowan to pick it up, transforming his weapon into a similar half-spear. Taking a few steps toward his armament, Rowan pretended to raise it up but charged at the man at the last second instead. The Warlord's blade cut the side of his neck, but he ignored everything, ramming into his adversary.

  Delayed Truth activated. You have 0% HP.

  His knee hit the man’s groin, his elbow the chin, his hands searched for the eyes, to gouge them off, while biting on the Warlord’s throat with his teeth. The adversary dissolved into specks of light. Rowan activated a healing patch, but he knew it was too late.

  Then he was back to full health, his Perk recharged, and the Warlord reappeared.

  “Well done,” the Warlord clapped. “Albeit you would have died too in a real battle, you have won against my easy mode. I'll think of a gift to reward your win, but for now, the lesson. You have an old Artifact as a weapon. Your imagination shapes it. Be creative.”

  A brief gesture and a mannequin appeared on the far side of the room. The Warlord's hand invoked a dozen undulating metal filaments, thirty feet long, that he projected at the dummy, some encircling the members and neck, some cutting, some bashing, others skewering it. The weapon looked like Spiderman's threads had mated with Wolverine's claws and was a sight to behold.

  “Of course, in time, you will learn advanced ways to focus your magic through your weapon.” The Warlord’s weapon took a spear shape and shot a beam of frost from its tip. It was Rowan’s perk, R?svelg, but concentrated in a fascicle. The target was blown to pieces but reappeared in a few seconds. “I'm bound not to reveal too many Perk-related spoilers. Use your brain.”

  “My Perk says The Snowstorm is R?svelg’s First Aspect. Does it have others? And what about applications?” Rowan asked.

  “I’m bound not to reveal this secret, as you must unlock your own abilities by yourself,” the Warlord mimicked a zipper over his mouth but nodded energetically. “Now, let’s talk about your fighting style. You think too much. Keep it simple and instinctive, and don't train with too many weapons. You’ll be the master of none… Look.”

  Approaching the mannequin, the Warlord donned a medium-length leaf-shaped sword. He made a step forward and a cutting motion. Then, he stopped, nodded, and repeated the same motion. And again, a few more times. Sometimes, he paused longer. Sometimes not. It was a very simple move, and Rowan could feel there was more to it but couldn’t pinpoint what.

  I have to train that and see what I discover…

  “If you need to go melee, stick to the spear and a short melee weapon. Training well is important. Half an hour at a time, not more, then take a break. Train one weapon and one motion in that interval, noting what you do well or wrong and what you must do to correct it. Don’t dwell on mistakes. Footwork is important. Train it for half an hour each day. And don’t forget your main asset: You’re stubborn and tough, put pressure on the enemy, do the unexpected, and keep going at them. This is all for now. It was a pleasure to meet you, Rowan Allinder. Expect to see more of me in the future.”

  A flash of light blinded Rowan, and the ejection felt like a large monster was spitting him out of its throat.

  Pacing back and forth in front of the gate, Isla thought: Why is it taking so long? She wanted to get through with it and continue to drown her anger in action. She was so pissed on Rowan… Wishing to hit him. The only thing stopping her was thinking he’d feel more entitled to his snobbish superiority.

  Police Brutality? That’s all he sees in me?

  She bit her lower lip, groaning. It was the curse of her life. Her hippie parents never invested in her education. Bad grades at school? The oppressing capitalism’s fault. They couldn’t help with homework if she’d put a gun to their heads.

  Choosing combat sports and a police career was to spite them. And arrest them too, when they manifested against the oil industry or hugged some tree. Fuck! Isla cursed in thought. She felt stupid and ugly. Isla wanted to be gentle, and refined. A princess, like Grace, or at least a cold elegant bitch like Victoria. Imposing. And she wanted Rowan to see that in her. Her potential.

  Last night, after his comment, she invested APs into INT, raising it from a mere twenty to the third threshold, to show him she was clever too. Yes, she had been through college, but he, a simple forklift operator, had been schooled by a posh noble gentleman, a Brahmin or shit. To her disappointment, all the new perks were still locked behind question marks.

  “Are you all right?” Rowan was back, fondling her shoulder.

  “I’m fine,” she said, pushing his hand away and touching the gate to avoid too much conversation.

  Inside, it was hot, a dry hot. Around her were ruins, the antique kind, and a dry, reddish earth. Not quite a replica of the Roman Forum, but close. She ground her teeth, remembering how they made fun of her when she had mistaken the Italian Rome with Rome, Georgia. Was it her fault that both had pines and villas in colonial style?

  Priority, protection. Isla had body armor, but she extracted her police riot shield from the inventory and coated it with a layer of energy. In her right hand, her trustworthy revolver.

  The beast took her by surprise, jumping on her from atop a column. She felt the air pressure at the last moment and turned. The monster’s weight threw her down, but fortunately, the shield took the brunt. She discharged half of her eight rounds in the beast, all hitting the lower part of the body. The monster took off, squealing, darting in zig-zags, hiding behind the large stones.

  “What the fuck was that?” Isla groaned, getting back to her feet. The creature had a monkey’s head, a lion’s body, and a weird tail. It resembled something she saw somewhere in Rome in a painting. A mythical beast. Rowan sure knew its name. He knew all the weird stuff painted by Michelangelo Faggoty or any other orgiastic decadent artist.

  It felt unnatural to her to have all those nudes in museums. No one thought of kids? For goodness sake! Isla’s frustration was growing. She wanted to be pretty and elegant, go together with Rowan to church, and be complimented and gifted flowers and chocolate…

  She noticed the incoming monster too late. Isla fired her last bullets, wounding the creature, but not enough to stop the charge. It crashed on her, throwing Isla on the ground, pinned under the monster’s weight and a sting inflicting a Poison DOT. Of course, the bloody weird tail.

  The multicore—or was it manticore?—was snapping her fangs an inch over her face, the police shield the only obstacle. And Isla’s HP was almost done from the DOT. Screaming in frustration, Isla dismissed her magical protection and the riot shield, thrust her right hand into the monster’s mouth, ignoring the bite and the pain, and activated her magical energy shield at full power, pushing it inside the monster, trying to shape it as… whatever. To pull, to stab, to choke with it. She wanted to live, and the creature had to die. The last thing she saw before losing consciousness was the monster’s head exploding.