“You’re awake,” a familiar Australian accent said.
I turned my head and blinked at the sight of the giant capybara guard lounging against the wall. His massive, stoic face stared back at me.
“Oi, he’s awake!” he shouted, startling me and drawing the attention of the room.
I tried to sit up, wincing at the stiffness in my back. Around me, the ward was bustling with life—if you could call it that. Fourteen beds lined the room, occupied by patients with injuries that should have been deadly but somehow weren’t.
A group of men covered in full-body burns were chatting happily like old friends. In another bed, a man played solitaire with three arrows sticking out of his chest, utterly unfazed.
“That’s the nuns’ doing,” a familiar voice said.
I whipped my head around and saw Sharla sitting up in a bed across from mine, her broad smile instantly warming me. She waved, and I noticed a line down the middle of her arm. As she shook it, the seam pulled apart slightly, revealing a flash of muscle and bone before snapping shut.
I cringed.
“Whoops,” she said, smirking.
“Sharla… what are you doing here?” I managed after a few seconds.
She shrugged. “Could ask you the same thing.”
We talked for what felt like hours, catching up until the nuns arrived to serve dinner.
The nuns were completely covered—robes obscuring their faces, legs, and arms. Even their hands were hidden by gloves that were pristine white, making them seem otherworldly as they moved silently through the ward.
They handed each of us a neatly packed cardboard box containing our meals. Sharla and I puzzled over how to open them, eventually figuring it out with some trial and error. She showed me how it worked, grinning like we were kids opening Happy Meals.
“Man, that’s messed up,” Sharla said between bites of her sandwich, which looked like ham and cheese. “Your own family threw you under the bus.”
I nudged aside a platter of exotic-looking fruits in my box, opting for the sandwich as well.
“I can’t believe Tyler voted for you,” I said, shaking my head. “I knew he could be a little shit sometimes, but I didn’t think he’d go that far.”
Sharla shrugged, proceeding to explained how she, Tyler, and eleven others had been trapped in a group chat and forced to vote for someone to be submitted to 'The Tithe.' They only had five minutes, and if they didn’t choose, the system would pick at random.
“I read all the tool-tips during selection,” Sharla said, wiping crumbs from her lips. “It’s a system of elimination. The tithe groups people together, and everyone has to vote someone in. If enough people pick the same person, they’re sent here.”
“And what happens here?” I asked, taking a cautious bite of my sandwich.
She leaned back, chewing thoughtfully. “This is where the real game starts. Survive, complete quests, and—if you’re lucky—you win. Money, fame, a ticket home to Earth.”
“That’s it?”
She raised an eyebrow. “We’re not exactly in a position to complain.”
She wasn’t wrong.
Sitting there with Sharla was surreal.
She was 37, of Tongan and Japanese descent, and her life had been shaped by challenges. Losing her father at a young age—a man who had served with honour in the military—had cast a long shadow over her family. His absence wasn’t just felt in the quiet, empty chair at the dinner table but in the profound loss of their guiding presence. Her mother, faced with the daunting task of raising a child alone, made the difficult choice to stay in Australia. It was a decision rooted in love and sacrifice, ensuring Sharla could finish her education and build a future in a place her father had hoped would offer stability and opportunity.
She lay in bed, wearing a white crop top that revealed a hint of a bra strap slipping out from under the neckline. The dark waistband of her pants peeked above the edge of the thick blankets that draped over her legs, cocooning her against the chill. There was a calm about her now, a stillness that belied the strength forged through years of enduring and overcoming.
Sharla had gone on to become a doctor, she had volunteered for Doctors Without Borders right out of medical school then moving into public health before pivoting to medicinal cannabis, which she described as “a lot more chill.”
She was taller than me by almost a full head, her imposing frame the product of years spent weightlifting and practising HEMA—Historical European Martial Arts. She’d explained to me and Tyler once how she loved donning armour and hitting people with a blunted battleaxe, her laughter ringing out as she described the bruises she’d earned.
Her dark, shiny hair, usually tied back in a bun, now fell in loose ringlets around her broad face. Her features were striking: a wide, flat nose, full lips, and freckles like ink splattered across the bridge of her nose and under her narrow eyes.
“Why do the capybaras have Australian accents?” I asked, snapping out of my thoughts.
She grinned slightly. “You know, I haven’t thought of it.”
Sharla had finished her sandwich, sitting quietly now, staring at her hand. The cut that bifurcated her arm up to the elbow had mostly healed, leaving behind an angry red line. She rubbed at it absently, her fingers tracing the scar like it was a habit she hadn’t yet realized she’d formed.
“You’re really lucky to be alive, you know,” she said finally, not looking up. Her voice was soft but carried a weight that made my chest tighten.
“We had a group go out right after the tutorial, thinking they’d rack up experience before everyone else. None of them came back.” She exhaled slowly, shaking her head. “When I went out, I ran into these fucked-up green things. They jumped me. It could have gotten ugly if some players hadn’t shown up and taken them out.”
Her breath hitched, and she forced a smile onto her face, the kind that didn’t reach her eyes.
The room fell silent, save for the occasional murmurs of other patients and the soft footsteps of nuns moving between beds.
Sharla had walked me through a few basics before turning in, showing me how to better manage my inventory and mentioning a building in town where I could learn more about my interface. Her explanations were calm and methodical, but her words carried a brittle edge, as though she was forcing herself to focus on something practical.
When she rolled over to sleep, I stayed awake, staring at the ceiling. The weight of everything she’d said pressed down on me. At some point, I heard a muffled sob from her bed.
I didn’t say anything.
Instead, I curled into a ball, pulled the covers over my head, and waited for sleep to take me.
The next morning, I woke up feeling completely healed.
Flexing my arm, I noted with some amazement that the wolf’s bite had left only the faintest outline of scars. The dull ache that had haunted me the day before was gone, replaced by a sense of newfound vigour.
Sharla’s bed was curtained off, and I could hear faint grunts of pain mixed with the murmured reassurances of the nuns. Their silhouettes moved behind the curtain, their robed forms helping Sharla with something I couldn’t see.
On the table beside my bed, my clothes were freshly laundered and neatly folded. I pulled the curtain around my bed closed and dressed quickly. My ring remained on my finger, a subtle reminder of the bizarre circumstances that had brought me here. I hopped up and secured my backpack to my back, its contents were untouched.
As I finished dressing, I called out, “I’m going to head off and find that tutorial place you mentioned.”
“Huh? Oh, yeah, sure,” Sharla replied, distracted. “I’m going to be a while anyway. Don’t leave town without me. If I’m not here when you get back, I’ll be at the Bottomless Pit—it’s a pub. Just ask around if you have trouble finding it.”
“Don’t worry, I’m not going back out there if I can avoid it. See you later,” I said, stepping out into the hallway.
Sitting in that room had become too much. The sight of people with horrific injuries casually going about their day, seemingly unbothered, had been unsettling—like something out of a Hellraiser movie.
As I left, the sharp tang of vinegar hit my nose. The scent was strangely nostalgic, reminding me of Sunday mornings when Mum used to clean the windows with it, the smell used to linger throughout the house for hours.
I followed the signs pointing to the exit. The walls were plastered but unevenly applied, their surface rough and bumpy. Wooden skirting ran along the bottom third, with vertical strips forming a repeating pattern of long rectangles.
The hospital, I realized as I stepped outside, was attached to a massive church. Peering through the doors I could see the interior; its architecture looked straight out of the 15th century—grand arches, towering spires, and intricate stonework—but the stone itself showed no signs of weathering. It was pristine, as though it had been built yesterday.
In the church’s vestibule, stained glass windows depicted nuns in black robes praying over wounded creatures on battlefields. The images were haunting and beautiful, the sunlight streaming through the glass casting vibrant colours onto the polished stone floor.
The space felt impossibly vast, the domed roof amplifying its grandeur. The floor beneath my feet was a speckled stone that reflected the light in patches, resembling a piece of polished granite.
As I stepped toward the exit, my eyes caught an intricate swirling pattern etched along the doorway. The design twisted and turned without breaking, encompassing the entire frame.
I paused, letting my eyes follow the pattern, feeling an odd sense of calm wash over me.
Then, taking a deep breath, I stepped out into the settlement.
Two large sandstone steps led me down to a bustling cobblestone street. The ground was filthy, coated in a slurry of mud, leaves, straw, a dark stinking liquid, and the occasional vagrant huddled in an alleyway.
The street was alive with activity, lined with merchants under makeshift lean-tos made of burlap stretched across crude wooden frames. Not all of them were human. My eyes caught on a goblin dressed in a top hat and vest, waving a walking stick over an assortment of brightly coloured bottled liquids.
A sign hung crookedly from the bench the goblin perched on:
Nobblehob’s Fantastic Brews
The text was written first in English, then in hieroglyph-like scrawls that I vaguely recognized as Goblin script—childlike and jagged, yet oddly expressive.
The goblin spotted me and smiled, revealing a chaotic jumble of mismatched teeth. I recoiled and hurried my pace down the thoroughfare, muttering a nervous, “Nope, nope, nope,” under my breath.
The street seemed endless, offering an overwhelming array of stores and stalls. Weapon vendors displayed racks of swords and maces; potion makers hawked bubbling elixirs; tailors showed off racks of armour, robes, and cloaks.
Some merchants operated shanty stalls set up outside their homes, while others worked out of more established shops with elaborate displays in wide windows. Mannequins dressed in dazzling enchanted gear stood under ornately painted signs, each accompanied by a brief description of the wares and a visual demonstration of their use.
BA-DING.
Achievement:
Window Shopper.
Description:
You’ve frustrated more than 10 vendors by hovering uselessly around their stalls, pretending to have enough money to buy something. Nice job hiding the smell of 'poor.'
Reward:
Tin Panhandler’s Cup. jingle jingle
The sudden notification sound startled me, as always. It was becoming less amusing by the minute. I grimaced and dismissed it, annoyed that these pop-ups weren’t just obnoxious but potentially life-threatening. If one of these appeared in the middle of a fight, it would blind me for the seconds it took to dismiss.
As my stomach growled, I pulled out the remainder of my Mornin’ Hun ration pack and ate the still-fresh cake, washing it down with the rest of my water. I’d skipped the nuns’ purple-tinged porridge earlier—it had a look that set off every alarm in my head—and I wasn’t about to risk it now.
The settlement had a distinctly medieval fantasy vibe, like it had been pulled straight out of a video game. The residents wore era-appropriate garb, making the players easy to spot.
All of us had been taken at about 1:05 AM on Christmas morning back in Australia. The result was an eclectic mix of pyjamas, fancy dress outfits, and loungewear. Some players roamed in large, nervous groups, clinging together in the crowded streets.
Others had already started adapting, carrying themselves with an uneasy confidence.
One man caught my attention. He wore khaki cargo pants, army boots, and a tank top, with a massive sword strapped to his back. He stood in front of a group of teenagers dressed in various Christmas-themed outfits, including one with a shirt that read "I’m a Ho, Ho, Ho" under a winking pinup of Mrs. Claus.
I shook my head and kept moving.
Finding the tutorial building was easy. It sat prominently at a T-intersection where the main street split into two narrower roads.
A towering rodent guard stood by the entrance, its darker fur patching over one eye giving it a slightly rakish appearance. As I approached, that familiar wave of calm washed over me, and I let out an involuntary sigh. The guard regarded me impassively as I climbed the wide, fluted steps.
The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
The building itself was impressive, constructed of roughly hewn stone without any visible mortar. Its imposing oak door, reinforced with iron bands and heavy rivets, was propped open with a large stone.
The scent of books and parchment wafted out, comforting and nostalgic.
Inside, the space opened into a high-ceilinged room with a large semicircular desk positioned against the far wall, facing the entrance.
Behind the desk stood a diminutive woman, scaled to about a quarter of an average human’s size. Her proportions were perfect, like a masterfully crafted doll.
Her hair flowed in long, liquid-like pigtails of very light blonde, streaked with hints of grey, cascading down her back and disappearing behind the desk. She wore a crisp white button-up shirt, accessorized with simple gold earrings that glinted in the light.
Perched on her small, angular nose were tiny, squared glasses, and her face was framed by fine wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. Her expression was one of perpetual disapproval, her mouth set in a grim line as she sorted through an impressive stack of papers.
To either side of the room were open doorways leading into various chambers that hinted at the scope of the guild's operations. One room resembled an auditorium, its rows of seats arranged to focus on a central stage. Another was a sprawling library, filled with towering shelves and rolling ladders. Further down, I caught glimpses of what appeared to be a combination laboratory and firing range—its walls scorched with burn marks faintly smoking. The final space was a macabre trophy room, lined with the preserved heads of monstrous creatures mounted like hunting prizes. Smaller specimens were displayed in scientific cases, each labelled meticulously with diagrams explaining their anatomy in unnerving detail.
I hesitated, taking it all in, before making my way to the desk. The diminutive woman behind it spoke without lifting her eyes from her work.
“Welcome to the Adventurers Guild. May I have your membership number?”
A transparent screen and keyboard materialized above the desk, floating a few inches in the air and tilting slightly as she moved, always staying just within her peripheral vision.
“Uh… I don’t have one?” I said, my voice trailing off.
She finally looked up at me—or rather, at the space above my head—and raised an eyebrow. Her expression shifted from bored to mildly irritated.
“A straggler, huh? Fill out a registration form and head into Lecture Hall A for induction,” she said, handing me a sheet of parchment with a flick of her wrist.
I took it gingerly, noting its weight. The parchment was thick, textured, and printed in a "medieval" calligraphy font that was a little too on-the-nose. It felt like a job application for a Renaissance fair.
Name:
Age:
Species:
Height:
Weight:
Class Preference:
I frowned at the final field, “Class Preference,” and looked up to ask. She pre-empted me, speaking in a rehearsed tone.
“Leave that one blank. You’ll fill it out after your induction.”
I nodded and turned my attention back to the form. As I stared, black ink began filling in most of the fields automatically. My age, height, weight, and even "species" (which I was relieved to see still said "human") appeared, leaving only the name and class preference fields blank.
I blinked and looked around for a pen—or a quill, given the aesthetic—but saw none.
“Uh, do you have a pe—?”
She sighed, her exasperation practically radiating off her tiny frame. “Use your interface to focus on the field you wish to write in and spell out the word. If you’re struggling, say the letters aloud until you get the hang of it.”
I tried it, focusing on the name field and spelling out “Ryan” in my head. I always used nonsense names during character creation—something like "Dangerous Chips" or "Mysterious Cheddar"—but this time it didn’t feel right.
The notification came instantly.
BA-DING
Achievement:
I Have a Name, You Know!
Description:
You have successfully registered yourself at the Adventuring Guild and chosen a name. Hope you didn’t pick anything lame—you can’t change it later, you know.
Reward:
1 “Hello, my name is: ‘Ryan’” sticker.
I pulled the sticker out of my inventory and examined it. Written in thick, cheerful red marker was my name, encircled by a blue border. The adhesive on the back felt like a post-it note. Shrugging, I awkwardly stuck it to my hoodie. It clung there like an embarrassing name tag at a corporate mixer.
Satisfied, I looked back up, only to meet the woman’s openly hostile glare.
“You can leave now,” she snapped, waving me off toward one of the auditorium doors.
Before I could move, that familiar smooth voice purred in my mind, dripping with patronising cheer.
BA-DING
New Quest!
Back to School.
Description:
I am so proud of you! Not only did you make it to the settlement, but you proved you have an ounce of initiative by making it to the Adventurer’s Guild and beginning your induction course. Complete your induction lecture and get a class assigned! Options are limited, so act fast—unless you want to be stuck as the party’s heal-bitch.
Reward:
1 Interface Induction Certification Pack.
I walked over to the room labelled 'Induction' and pushed the door open. As I stepped into the room, I was struck by its unusual design. It sloped downward, divided into large, stepped platforms that created a natural descent from the entrance, which was positioned at the very top. Long wooden pews lined each step, offering seating for visitors. Their polished surfaces reflected the dim light. Along the wall to my left, a wide staircase descended in measured intervals, leading directly to the centre of attention—a raised octagonal stage.
The stage itself was an intriguing sight. Three imposing blackboards loomed behind a central wooden lectern, their dark surfaces waiting to be filled with chalky wisdom. The lectern, polished and worn with age, stood as a focal point in the otherwise sombre space. For a moment, I stood frozen, taking in the stillness. The room was utterly silent, and I realised I was alone. Unsure of what to do, I chose a pew near the entrance and sat down. My footsteps and the creak of the wooden bench echoing faintly in the emptiness.
No sooner had I settled than a figure appeared behind the lectern. It was a short, stout man who exuded an air of quiet authority. His dark copper beard was long and meticulously braided into a single thick plait that hung down over his chest, its strands glinting faintly in the dim light. His hair, the same deep copper hue, was neatly combed back, giving him a polished and deliberate appearance. Despite the weariness suggested by the heavy bags under his eyes, his eyes was strikingly youthful, sharp and bright as though they belonged to someone much younger.
He stood atop a stepping stool. The extra height barely allowing him to peer over the lectern. His sturdy frame and well-kept attire, a simple yet impeccably tailored robe of deep forest green with bronze accents, gave him a dignified presence. Before him lay a massive tome, its yellowed pages crinkled with age. His fingers, strong and slightly calloused, rested lightly on the open book, as though he had paused mid-study to address the room.
With deliberate care, the dwarf lifted his head. His sharp eyes locking onto mine for a moment before surveying the empty space. Then, he cleared his throat, a deep, resonant sound that echoed through the hall, amplified as though carried by an invisible speaker system. The reverberation lingered in the stillness, commanding attention.
"So, you have been chosen for The Tithe and have made your way to our little slice of paradise, on that I congratulate you. We do try and make it as straight forward as possible but we seem to lose a chunk of people at the start of each new intake.
You may have already been acquainted with the locals on your way here but if you haven't don't worry, we'll get into that shortly."
What proceeded was a dry lecture on the various factions, monsters and dangers that were in the woods surrounding the settlement. Illustrations magically drew themselves on the blackboards and depicted the settlement placed in the intersection of four roads that cut through the otherwise uninterrupted forest. Each road was labelled simply north, south, east and west. Sharla had mentioned that I arrived at the southern gate, I found myself wishing I had a notepad to transcribe the information and helpfully a new window appeared where I could mentally type.
BA-DING
Achievement:
Book worm
Description:
You have located the scratchpad and have successfully created a new note. Trust a nerd like you to worry about stationery in a place like this.
Reward:
1 pocket protector
I frustratingly waved the notification away and raised my hand. To my surprise the man on stage promptly stopped his explanation of the different types of plants commonly found along the pathways and addressed me, consulting his tome quickly before doing so.
"Yes, uh, Ryan, how can I be of service?" he said, his deep voice clear and calm.
"When do we learn how to use the interface? I'm really starting to get annoyed with the notifications," I said. A feeling of familiar embarrassment washed over me as my voice came out much louder than I had expected. In school I rarely drew attention to myself, preferring to stay as unnoticeable as possible. Here however, I felt the urgent need for information overcome the anxiety that normally caused me to shy away.
“That specific module will be discussed after we’ve covered the material on flora,” the dwarf said, his tone clipped and matter-of-fact. “We’re about halfway through, so please be patient. If you’re unable to wait, I suggest you occupy yourself with the compendium.” He waved a hand, and a new window filled my vision.
The interface was similar to my personal storage but tailored for information rather than items. Each line item was a title of an entry, and above the list was a search bar. I pressed on the search field and typed notifications. The list filtered itself, leaving behind a single heading titled "Interface" with a subheading "Notifications."
Compendium
Interface
- Notifications
I clicked the subheading, and a tooltip appeared.
Info - Notifications
These helpful little morsels are used to communicate important information to our valued players. They can contain quest details, achievements, unread messages, party invitations, and much more. They’ve been stylized to be as familiar as possible to our players.
To change their sound or appearance, please visit the customization menu under settings.
The word customization was underlined with pulsating dots. When I focused on it, another window titled Options opened, navigating directly to the customization area. I scanned the menu, spotting an option labelled Deliver notifications minimized. I clicked it, and the square to the right filled in, indicating it was now enabled. At the bottom of the menu were two buttons: Test and Save.
Curious, I pressed Test. A slight buzz behind my eyes followed, and a green icon with a (1) flashed in the bottom-right corner of my vision. Clicking it revealed a notification:
BA-DING
This is a test notification.
The text faded after five seconds, closing automatically. Satisfied, I hit Save, feeling another soft buzz. Another notification immediately appeared as an inconspicuous box that I opened:
BA-DING
Achievement:
I'm not picky, I'm particular.
Description:
You have successfully customized your interface for the first time. Is what we put together not good enough for you?
Reward:
You feel a fleeting sense of agency.
I dismissed it, a sense of satisfaction washing over me. I spent a few more minutes tweaking the layout, settling on a design where notifications appeared at 20% opacity and auto-closed after two seconds unless focused on. My scratchpad, notification history, and compendium were now easily accessible. While exploring, I was reminded of the reward that had been held until after registration.
Returning my attention to the lecture, I dutifully entered notes in my scratchpad. However, I quickly realized the compendium contained identical information, albeit without the dwarf's flowery embellishments. My focus waned until the lecture concluded with an overview of guilds, job bookers, and community boards—the lifeblood of quests and information for adventurers.
“Now,” the dwarf said, closing his tome with a sharp ‘thud’, “proceed to the class selection area in an orderly fashion. You’ll find it in the room opposite this auditorium. Any disruptions will result in an immediate suspension of your privileges.”
A notification appeared as I stood, and I opened it. My induction reward had been delivered: a coupon for a class called Safety Inspector. Frowning, I examined it. The title was as unremarkable as it was baffling. What kind of adventurer chose Safety Inspector?
Shrugging, I walked into the room marked Class Selection. A cardboard sign hung crookedly on the door. Inside was a space that resembled a gymnasium. Wooden dummies lined one wall, practice weapons were stored in neatly organized racks, and targets dangled from the ceiling like forgotten decorations.
At the back of the room, a booth was manned by a bored-looking dwarf with sandy blond hair and an unruly beard. Their drab blue robes were streaked with chalky stains, and their posture screamed disinterest.
When our eyes met, however, they bolted upright, hastily wiping their hands on their robes as though caught slacking.
"Hi! Er, I mean, welcome, player!" the dwarf stammered, their voice cracking slightly as they attempted a friendly greeting. "I hope I can help you today. No, wait—how can I help you today?" They smiled nervously, their confidence teetering on the edge of collapse.
"Yeah, I’m here to pick my class? I didn’t fill out a preference yet. Is that... a problem?" I said, trying to keep my tone casual.
The dwarf glanced down at the table in front of them, then back up, their expression suddenly shifting to an exaggerated air of confidence. "Worry not, player! Uh, I’m sure there’s a class that is perfect for you!" They kept glancing down, as if consulting something out of view.
As I approached the booth, I noticed an A4-sized piece of parchment with blocky, handwritten notes that I couldn’t quite read. The dwarf waved their hand, summoning a floating screen to their side. They scanned the list, a bead of sweat forming on their brow.
"Now, uh, I hope you understand," they began, hesitating slightly, "that you were, um, quite late for the induction. So... there, uh, isn’t that much to choose from."
I frowned. "How can you run out of class options?"
The question seemed to catch the attendant off guard. Their brow furrowed as they looked down at the parchment again, tracing a finger along a flowchart. After a brief pause, they ducked under the counter and emerged with a small, plain wooden box filled with stacks of cue cards bound with twine. Consulting the cheat sheet, they shuffled through the cards and picked out a small pile, squinting at the top one before speaking.
"Great question!" they said, clearly stalling for time. "Class options are, uh, more like a license issued by the adventurers’ gu—uh, guild."
They smiled awkwardly, cleared their throat, and straightened up. Their tone shifted to something more formal, reciting from the cards.
"Being a holder of one of these licenses provides players access to the skills, spells, and abilities associated with that class. While in possession of a license, you can gain experience in these skills. Mastering them allows for prestige in a class, unlocking even more powerful skills, spells, and abilities. Changing or revoking a license prevents further experience gain in those skills but doesn’t erase what you’ve already learned. Be aware that mastering certain skills may block progress in others, so choose wisely."
They paused, glancing down at their cheat sheet again, before continuing.
"If you wish to change your class, our friendly staff at the front desk can assist—for a small fee."
They looked up, their expression caught between hopeful and unsure, as if waiting for approval.
"Right... good to know," I said, letting my voice trail off. But before they could continue, a question struck me. "Why would someone have their license revoked? Do we, uh, work for you or something?"
The dwarf’s eyes widened, darting around the room as if searching for help. They fidgeted with the queue cards before pulling out another stack, their fingers trembling slightly. "I, uh, I’m sorry," they blurted, their voice dropping to a whisper. "I’m covering for my brother. I’m not really supposed to be here, and if Hailey finds out, I’m toast."
I hesitated, suddenly feeling guilty for bombarding them with questions. "It’s all good, my guy. You’re doing great," I said, attempting to sound reassuring.
Their face lit up with a pitiful, grateful smile before they continued, nervously reading from the cards.
"While players aren’t technically staff, they do operate on behalf of the guild. Players are expected to conduct themselves in accordance with the guild’s mission and uphold its public image. Failing to do so may result in license revocation, suspension, or even expulsion from the guild. Additionally, failure to meet the set quest quota can result in punitive action, including class revocation, suspension of guild membership, or mandatory quest assignment."
I blinked, trying to process the information. "Is there, like, a pamphlet or something for this? Because I’m pretty sure I missed half of that."
"You know what, never mind. Can you just tell me what classes you have left?" I said, cutting off the dwarf before they could start fumbling through another stack of cards. Relief washed over them like a wave, and they exhaled as though they’d been holding their breath since I arrived.
"Of course!" they said, their enthusiasm tempered by lingering anxiety. They pulled out another set of cards and began going over the available classes.
The first was a healer. The second? Another healer. By the third variation—something called a Rejuvenation Specialist—I felt my patience waning. I didn’t have anything against healers. In fact, I’d played the role plenty of times in D&D campaigns, World of Warcraft, and even EverQuest. But the thought of being branded a "heal bitch" by the quest voice was... unappealing, to say the least.
The dwarf was halfway through describing a glyph-based support class when I decided I’d had enough. "Sorry to interrupt, but can I use this instead?" I said, pulling out the coupon for the Safety Inspector class and holding it up for the dwarf to see.
Their eyes widened as though I’d just handed them a cursed artifact. They began frantically flipping through their cheat sheet, their lips moving soundlessly as they tried to piece together a response.
I sighed and rubbed the back of my neck. "Look, I’m sorry to be a pain, but... can I still sign up for the guild if I don’t pick a class right now?" I asked, holding my hands up in a gesture of surrender.
The dwarf stopped flipping through the cards and smiled at me, visibly relieved. "Yup! You sure can. Just head back to the front desk, and they’ll get you sorted."
I nodded my thanks and made my way back to the front of the building. The woman who had originally greeted me had been replaced by a young Asian man, likely in his early twenties. He looked up from the desk as I approached, his clean white shirt crisp and unwrinkled compared to the frazzled dwarf’s robes. His short, jet-black hair was neatly combed, and his expression was far more welcoming than his predecessor’s.
"Hi, how can I help you?" he asked, his voice calm and professional.
"Hey, I was told I could sign up for the guild even if I don’t pick a class right away," I said.
"Absolutely!" he replied, reaching beneath the counter and producing a trifold pamphlet the size of a dinner menu. He handed it to me with a practiced smile. "Here’s everything you need to know about joining the guild. If you choose to register without a class, we’ll contact you as soon as one of your preferences—or a similar one—becomes available."
He paused, scanning my face before adding, "There is a one-time registration fee of 100 Crowns, though. You’ll also need to pay a small stipend for class reservation."
My stomach sank. "Yeah, about that... I don’t have any money right now."
The man’s smile didn’t falter, though there was a hint of pity in his eyes. "That’s not uncommon for new arrivals," he said kindly. "I’d recommend taking on a few guild-sponsored odd jobs. They’re posted on the community boards around town. Once you’ve earned enough, come back, and we’ll get you registered."
"Right. Thanks," I said, tucking the pamphlet into my backpack and heading for the door.
The street outside felt a little colder as I stepped back into the chaos of the settlement. I hadn’t even officially joined the guild, and I was already broke and directionless.