When one wakes up in a strange place, especially a place where one didn’t go to sleep the night before, it is understandable for one to act a certain way.

  So, when Oliver Weston fell asleep on his sofa in his front room, while watching the entire Lord of the Rings trilogy in one sitting for the tenth time, and woke up chained to a dungeon wall, it would be understandable for him to panic, scream, shout, cry, or at the very least exclaim “Oh darn!”

  What he actually did, instead of all these things, was laugh. Just a chuckle, a small titter that would hardly be audible anywhere else. But with the dungeon he now found himself in being vast and spacious, his harmless little laugh transformed into an evil cackle as it bounced off the dank, crumbling walls, the sound reaching all the way to the cavernous ceiling.

  Oliver didn’t really know why he laughed. Maybe it was because he thought he was dreaming? Or perhaps his brain was having a huge nostalgia trip for the opening of The Elder Scrolls 4 Oblivion? Or maybe he’d finally gone mad, like his mum always said he would?

  He looked around, feeling he may as well humour his subconscious by playing along with the weird hallucination.

  He was in his summer pyjamas, held in place to a stone wall by iron shackles on both his wrists, splayed out like a starfish, his bare feet only just touching the floor. The floor itself was the same stone as the walls, with occasional clumps of straw and…brown patches, scattered about. He could only see about twenty feet in front of him, a strange dim white light that reminded him of moonlight beaming down from a convenient hole in the ceiling high above.

  He would have tried to convince himself that the aforementioned…brown patches, were chocolate, but all the smells of the place chose that moment to assault his senses. Damp, stagnant water, piss, excrement and something else, like something had died in here. He gagged and tried to breathe through his mouth for the time being.

  “Okay…maybe this is actually real then?” He croaked to himself. His throat was parched. He remembered reading somewhere, (probably a random Facebook article, which would of course have been factchecked), that dreams didn’t involve taste or smell, so maybe it was real after all.

  The revelation that he wasn’t dreaming made some of the strangely absent panic start to creep in.

  The shackles holding him in place now suddenly felt a lot tighter, jagged metal digging into his wrists, the feel of the cold stone wall cutting through his thin pyjama top like a knife.

  “Hello?!” Oliver wheezed through chapped lips, the word reverberating all around him. He repeated it three more times, slightly louder each time, but he couldn’t quite yell.

  He experimentally (and admittedly naively) tried to pull his wrists free from the shackles, but was unsurprisingly unable to apply any degree of force.

  He turned his head to look at the shackle holding his right wrist. The shackle was a hollow cylinder of iron encasing his wrist, held to the wall by two metal bolts on either side.

  Something stood out to him almost right away. The body of the shackle was tarnished and rusty, the metal’s shine long since dulled. He turned to look at his left wrist. The other shackle was in much the same state of disrepair.

  In his dehydrated, confused and panicked state, he tried to think of any way he could free himself.

  And that was when things got weird.

  As he squinted at the right shackle more closely, to his utter bewilderment, words appeared in front of him, floating in his vision as though on a screen. They scrolled across his retinas as though they were being typed in real time, overlayed in bright green text that was stark against the shackle’s iron grey.

  ASSESSING MOST PROBABLE PATHS:

  PATH 1: FORCIBLY BREAK SHACKLE

  MORTAL CHANCE: 5%

  MYTHIC CHANCE: 55%

  PATH 2: MANOEUVRE LIMB FREE

  MORTAL CHANCE: 10%

  MYTHIC CHANCE: 70%

  MYTHIC MANA STORE: 100% CAPACITY

  Oliver blinked, resisting the urge to laugh again. On top of the absurd situation he found himself in, now his mind was making him hallucinate words from staring too hard.

  He looked again and the same words appeared, re-typed fresh each time he focussed on them.

  “What in the world?”

  Maybe these could help him. Looking at the “PROBABLE PATHS” and thinking for a couple of minutes, he concluded that the two options presented were indeed (in his mind) the only obvious courses of action he could take.

  It took him longer to get his head around the MORTAL and MYTHIC CHANCES. Was he supposed to know this? Was this something from a game he had played that he should recognise?

  After a lot of mental gymnastics, he arrived at what he thought was a sensible theory. Since he was (last time he checked) mortal, he assumed that MORTAL CHANCE, referred to his chances of achieving that path…naturally, was that the right word? Achieving the outcome on his own, without help…maybe? If that was correct, then he also agreed with the text’s projected chances of him achieving each outcome. It said he had a 5% chance of breaking the shackle naturally with his own MORTAL strength, that made sense. He would need strength he just didn’t have, even with them as rusted as they were. He agreed his chances were higher (if only just) of prying his hand free at 10%, but he also knew he would either have to imitate that scene from Gerald’s Game (deeply unpleasant)…or the one from 127 Hours (even more unpleasant).

  He squinted again at the text. He had no idea what MYTHIC MANA STORE was, but assumed it must be connected to the MYTHIC CHANCES, which he was also clueless about.

  “What is MYTHIC CHANCE?” Oliver croaked to the dungeon at large.

  Silence

  “What is…MYTHIC MANA STORE?!” He said louder, his throat feeling like sandpaper as the dungeon echoed his words back to him.

  What had he been expecting, a voice to suddenly come out of nowhere and explain everything to him just because he asked? Then again he didn’t know what to expect at this point.

  It looked like he was going to have to figure everything out himself, most likely through trial and error. Maybe if he attempted to follow the trail of moon logic this bizarre situation seemed to demand, maybe he would get some answers.

  “Use MYTHIC CHANCE” he said, focussing on the right wrist shackle.

  Nothing happened.

  “Use MYTHIC MANA STORE” he tried, continuing to stare at his trapped right wrist.

  Again, nothing happened.

  He tried a few more times with the same outcome. He then tried saying anything from the text in the hope of eliciting some kind of response.

  Thinking it was the lesser of two evils, he randomly said “Path 2”. As soon as he said it, the PATH 2 section of the text seemed to glow brighter, as if it had been highlighted. The text also got bigger, as if he had zoomed in on it.

  “Okay…that’s something.” Oliver croaked. His head was beginning to pound from dehydration and his vision was getting blurry from staring at his right wrist for so long. He was developing a crick in his neck from stretching.

  “Erm…Use MYTHIC CHANCE?” he said experimentally. The text flashed and zoomed back. In his mind, that seemed like an acknowledgment.

  “Oh now that works?!” He said sarcastically, beginning to lose patience with whatever this bullshit system was. So, he needed to actually select a “Path” before he could use whatever these “MYTHIC CHANCES” were. It was great things were obvious.

  When the text flashed, he heard a strange tone, like a piano key playing, but instead of echoing around the room, it simply faded quickly, as if he were wearing headphones. He then jolted, as he briefly felt as if cool water had been poured over him. He looked down at his body, thinking that water had dripped from the ceiling onto him, but there was nothing. Apart from sweat, he was dry as a bone.

  Looking back at his right wrist, he found that some of the numbers had changed slightly.

  ASSESSING MOST PROBABLE PATHS:

  PATH 1: FORCIBLY BREAK SHACKLE

  MORTAL CHANCE: 5%

  MYTHIC CHANCE: 55%

  PATH 2: MANOEUVRE LIMB FREE

  This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

  MYTHIC CHANCE: 70%

  MYTHIC MANA STORE: 90% CAPACITY

  He waited a few moments. Nothing happened.

  Was he supposed to try to manoeuvre his hand free now? But nothing had happened. How were his chances now 70%?

  Maybe the percentage wasn’t his likelihood of succeeding? Maybe he had interpreted this completely wrong. Maybe he was hallucinating the text and he was wasting his time. Maybe he was messing with a system he didn’t understand and wouldn’t help him in the slightest and he would simply rot here on this wall for the rest of his short life.

  Then, suddenly, a glint caught his eye.

  Looking past the text, focussing on his right hand itself, he could see that though it looked roughly like it always did, there was now a subtle difference. In the light of the small moonbeam above, he noticed that the skin on his hand seemed to have a wet, glistening look to it, as though it had been dipped in lubricant. It didn’t feel wet, but it was hard to tell as his hand had gone slightly numb from the tight shackle. He flexed his fingers, and droplets of…something fell from his hand and dripped onto the floor below.

  Bracing his feet on the floor, he lightly pulled on his right hand. His hand slid into the inside of the shackle, as though it were jelly being fed down a small pipe. There was a bit of resistance as he pulled harder, but eventually, with a wet sucking sound, his hand popped out of the shackle, thankfully with no skin or flesh being sheered off in the process.

  Steadying himself, he nearly jumped as he heard a chime sound off, again just in his head. He could have sworn it sounded like the Windows 98 “Tada!” sound, the most condescending sound in history. Was this…system…whatever it was, mocking him?

  Panting, he inspected his right hand more closely. It looked exactly the same, except for gooey layers of the strange lubricant that covered his whole hand and half way down his forearm. His inspection caused some more of the goo to drip to the floor again with a wet slap. He sniffed it, but it didn’t smell of anything. Then he gagged as…other smells crept in again.

  He waited for a few minutes, astonished that he had freed his hand so easily. Despite multiple shakes of his hand and wiping it on his pyjama shorts, the strange lubricant didn’t seem to come off. Or it did, but it was replenishing itself, as if his skin was naturally producing it.

  Wait, was his hand like this forever now? At that moment, he didn’t care.

  “Alright, one hand down, one to go.” He croaked, standing there with his shackled left hand still raised above his head like an overeager student asking a question.

  Looking up at his left wrist, the same text appeared again.

  ASSESSING MOST PROBABLE PATHS:

  PATH 1: FORCIBLY BREAK SHACKLE

  MORTAL CHANCE: 5%

  MYTHIC CHANCE: 55%

  PATH 2: MANOEUVRE LIMB FREE

  MORTAL CHANCE: 10%

  MYTHIC CHANCE: 20%

  MYTHIC MANA STORE: 90% CAPACITY

  “Wait, why is the PATH 2 MYTHIC CHANCE now 20%?!” He asked no-one in particular.

  Did it not carry over to his other hand? Did using a particular MYTHIC CHANCE suddenly lower it’s effectiveness if he used it again?

  It seemed the only course of action was to try PATH 1 and hope for the best.

  “Path 1” he said with more confidence this time. The text highlighted PATH 1 and zoomed in as before.

  “Use MYTHIC CHANCE” he said, clearing his throat as his voice cracked. The same piano tone played and the same coldness feeling swept over him.

  His eyes started blurring as sweat from his forehead had begun to go into them. He wiped his face with his free right hand, which only resulted in him covering himself in the gooey lubricant. He spluttered as he shook his head and some went in his mouth. It didn’t taste of anything but it was still an unpleasant feeling. He wiped off his face on his upper right arm, before looking back at his still shackled left wrist again.

  This “PATH 1” was to do with his physically breaking the shackle. He pulled with his left arm, and suddenly felt a new found strength, just in that arm, that he’d never felt before. It felt good. He felt like he could crush stone, bend a steel bar in half, or lift a car single handed. He used that strength and pulled with all his might.

  He staggered forward as the shackle came free from the wall in a cloud of dust. A second chime went off, but rather than the “Tada!” sound, it was what sounded like the “Chord” sound from Windows 98 (what was it with this system and Windows 98?!).

  Once he found his balance and stood up straight for the first time, he frowned. That “Chord” sound was generally associated with “something fucked up”, but he had pulled his hand free. Was it just coincidence and this system just played random sounds regardless of what he did?

  A few seconds after the dust had cleared, he looked at his hand. He saw that yes, his left hand was free, yay…but it was still inside the shackle, which in turn had the large chunk of stone from the wall still attached to it, boo.

  He shook his arm, but the stone chunk wouldn’t budge. His buffed strength was enough that it didn’t really weigh anything, which was fine, but the stone chunk was as big as his head. He couldn’t walk around with this attached to his wrist, he would look ridiculous.

  Flailing his arm about as if it were a spider that wouldn’t let go, he accidentally smashed the stone chunk into the wall, shattering it into dust and pebbles which tumbled around him.

  “Well that’s one way to do it.” Oliver said, flexing his bicep to show the unimpressed wall how strong he was.

  The shackle itself was still attached to his left hand, but that would have to do. He was free, that was all that mattered for now.

  “Right…where the fuck am I?” Oliver said, finally having a moment to taking in the dungeon around him.

  He could tell the place was vast, the lone moonbeam in the ceiling illuminating just twenty feet in all directions, surrounded by total darkness. Looking at the section of wall he’d just been shackled to, he now noticed other visible sets of shackles set at small intervals along it. And some of the shackles…still had occupants. Though it hardly mattered, as they were long dead.

  Bodies were still chained in place by their wrists to the wall. Some were full bodies, their flesh still holding them together, their faces gaunt and sunken, maggots burrowing away into their eyes and mouth, tattered clothing still clinging to their frames. Some were crumbled skeletons that had broken away from the shackles and piled on the floor, the occasional boney arm or hand still held captive.

  Oliver looked at the nearest body, a bearded man with half his face missing, his belly bloated as his legs had buckled and splintered under his weight.

  “Jesus, who were these people, and why am I here with them?” Oliver said, strangely calm in the presence of several half rotted corpses. He guessed it must be the adrenaline and him still not being 100% sure that this was real at all.

  Inspecting the corpse closer, (holding his breath as he did so), he noticed that beardy faceless had the remains of what must have been a cloak draped over his shoulders.

  Shivering in his short sleeved top and shorts as a cold draft blew through the darkness, Oliver decided any other layer would be good regardless of where it came from. Looking at the other corpses, this was the largest item of clothing still remaining. He grabbed the hem of the cloak with his right hand and the material slipped through his fingers due to the lubricant. Changing hands, he pulled with his left.

  His still enhanced left arm strength caused the cloak to tear off the corpse in one motion. Unfortunately, the huge force he didn’t really intend to use (as in his confusion and delirium he had already forgotten about his strength increase) caused the corpse’s arms to peel out of the shackles as if they were made of jelly, which caused the remains of the man to slump forward, making Oliver stagger backwards and away, tripping over the hem of the cloak as he did so. The corpse fell to the floor, the bloated stomach bursting, fetid stomach contents and maggots spraying out in all directions.

  Oliver wretched and instinctively used the cloak to shield himself from the flying sludge. A few seconds passed, and he lowered the cloak, doing a damage check. Miraculously, none of the foul stuff had ended up on him. Shivering in a way that had nothing to do with the cold, he looked at the not so lucky, drenched, stinking cloak that he was now both thankful for and regretted taking.

  Unsurprisingly, he no longer felt like wearing it. But what choice did he have? He couldn’t explore a dungeon in thin pyjamas.

  Trying not to wretch at the overwhelming smell, he dropped the cloak. In doing so, his eyes fell on a torch bracket that was set into the wall nearby. Fire! Light! That was exactly what he needed.

  Oliver rushed over to it. It was empty.

  Well that was pointless excitement. He walked away, shivering, trying to ignore the small wisps of steam coming from the still decomposing corpse on the floor. Great, he was free, but he was now going to freeze to death before he figured out where he was, why he was here and how this weird system worked. Wait…the system.

  Glancing at his still lubed up right hand, he smacked himself in the head at his stupidity. The wet smack echoed around him, and he wiped his face on his arm again.

  Yes the torch bracket was empty, but he could do magic, so could he light it somehow?!

  Staring at the torch bracket, the same green text as before appeared over it.

  ASSESSING MOST PROBABLE PATHS:

  PATH 1: LIGHT EMPTY TORCH BRACKET

  MORTAL CHANCE: 0%

  MYTHIC CHANCE: 40%

  PATH 2: LIGHT FULL TORCH BRACKET

  MORTAL CHANCE: 5%

  MYTHIC CHANCE: 80%

  MYTHIC MANA STORE: 80% CAPACITY

  By the looks of it, Oliver seemed to lose 10% of his MYTHIC MANA STORE every time he used it. He supposed that meant he had eight more “supernatural” things he could do with his body before it ran out. What would happen when it ran out? How did he refill his MYTHIC MANA STORE? Could he refill it at all? So many questions.

  He knew at some point he would probably have to use this weird power sparingly, but right now he was cold, alone, confused and lost in a strange place with no idea what to do or where to go.

  For the moment, fire would solve two of his problems, warmth and light. He thought that a worthy trade for some mythic power.

  He selected PATH 2 and used the MYTHIC CHANCE, the same tone and cold feeling passing over him again. He looked down at his body. Nothing seemed to have changed. Supposedly he now had an 80% chance of lighting the bracket, if it was full.

  Oliver picked up the dripping cloak he hadn’t been sure what to do with and stuffed it into the top of the iron torch bracket. Realising the bracket was permanently set into the wall rather than being designed to be held by hand, he took hold of it and pulled both the bracket and another chunk of stone out of the wall, breaking the jagged rock into pieces like he had the first time. This left him with an iron bracket with a dusty, fetid stomach contents soaked cloak stuffed in it, which that he awkwardly held from the bottom in his left hand.

  Adjusting the bracket’s position, he saw a glint of something as his hand turned in the moonlight.

  Holding his left hand up to the moonlight, he saw that his left thumb and middle finger were now black rather than his pale skin tone. He placed the bracket on the floor to look more closely.

  He panicked momentarily, as in the moonlight it looked almost like his two digits were necrotic or injured in some way. But when he tried to move them, they moved normally and he felt no pain, as if they were no different. Rotating his fingers, these two in particular seemed to gleam, as though they were encased in a dark shiny material. He moved them both and touched them to each other. A small click sound echoed, like two rocks clacking together.

  “Wait…it’s EXACTLY like rocks hitting each other.” Oliver mused.

  Without thinking, he clicked his thumb and middle finger together. A burst of sparks erupted from the contact, causing him to jump back in alarm.

  His fingers were encased in flint!

  He had to admire the system’s “spark” of creativity. He chuckled at his hilarious joke.

  Oliver picked up the bracket in his right hand (having to hold it as firmly as possible to stop it slipping in his lube covered fingers) and snapped his flint fingers, causing sparks to fly over the bracket.

  Instead of lighting the cloak inside the bracket however, one of the sparks landed on his right hand. Instantly, the weird lubricant ignited, causing his whole right hand and forearm to burst into flames. Oliver screamed and dropped the the bracket, staggering around frantically as the light from the blaze nearly blinded him. He flailed about and shook it to try and blow it out, but if anything the blaze seemed to get bigger and brighter.

  Now, had Oliver been more rational in that moment, had the events of the last half an hour or so not caused him to enter a weird brain fog where logic didn’t belong, had any stray thought he may have had not been instantly overwritten by “Ah! Ah! My arm is on fire! Fuck! Fuck! Put it out! Fuck!”, he would probably have noticed that the fire was not actually causing him any pain. Nor was the arm itself actually burning or crisping or getting smaller.

  After about a minute of screaming, running in circles and waving his arm as though he were trying to fly, he slowly came to realise these facts. He stopped and stood, squinting at his fiery appendage, his eyes slowly adjusting to the brightness of the fire. He realised the heat produced from the fire was not overpowering either, more akin to being stood near to the grated fire in his grandad’s living room. It was actually quite pleasant.

  The “Chord” tone from before chose that moment to play, causing him to jump in fright.

  “Task failed successfully I guess.” Oliver said, wishing the system could have at least used tones from this century.

  Holding his immolating extremity in front of him at embered arms length, Oliver stepped tentatively into the darkness at the edge of the moonbeam.