《The Church, the Mage, and the Snarky AI》


 Chapter 1：The Unluckiest Transmigrator

    Kyle felt that something was off.


    Waking from a dazed and muddled state, his head throbbed with pain, as if needles were piercing his brain, making it impossible to think straight. He didn''t know what had happened or where he was. The groggy feeling was incredibly uncomfortable.


    However, even in his hazy state, one thing was clear - this was not his familiar, cozy bed.


    What was going on?


    The surrounding environment felt oppressive, the space even more cramped than his rented studio apartment. The dim light flickered, teasing his heavy eyelids. Not far behind him, the muffled sound of dripping water echoed, making his chest feel tight¡­


    Along with hushed voices.


    "He really seems to be dead. Annie, you went too far!"


    A female voice, laced with accusation.


    "I didn''t do it on purpose. How was I supposed to know he was so fragile? Besides, I barely did anything."


    The woman called Annie replied, sounding flustered.


    "Enough, we need to figure out how to explain this to Michelle."


    "Michelle¡­ No! What are we going to do? She''s going to kill us!"


    "Don''t drag me into this. It''s all your fault. You''re the one who did him in. It has nothing to do with me¡­"


    The conversation continued, grating on Kyle''s aching head. But after a moment, he managed to push past the pain, regaining his basic ability to observe and assess his situation.


    He forced his eyes open.


    He found himself in a narrow room, reminiscent of a basement from a horror flick. Pitch black surrounded him, the only light coming from torches mounted on the walls. Slimy moss clung to the corners and ceiling, the heavy moisture in the air making his skin crawl.


    Kyle tried to move.


    Immediately, he discovered that he was tied to a chair, his hands bound tightly behind his back with rough rope that chafed painfully against his skin.


    Not only that, his body felt uncharacteristically weak.


    Weak to a concerning degree.


    "What do we do¡­ Michelle¡­ Oh god, she''s here!"


    The steady clack of high heels interrupted their panicked chatter and Kyle''s feeble attempt to struggle free.


    In the dim firelight, a figure gradually took shape.


    It was a woman draped in a voluminous robe, a hood concealing her face entirely. The deep green fabric shrouded her, not a single identifying feature visible. She could have been a mannequin underneath for all he could tell.


    Kyle only assumed she was a woman based on the click of heels and the name "Michelle".


    Still dazed, his instincts screamed at him to play dead.


    So before anyone noticed he was awake, he let his body go slack, slumping in the chair, unmoving.


    Eyes shut tight, ears straining, he focused on what would unfold next.


    "Michelle, you''re here¡­"


    Annie''s voice trembled.


    "Wake him." A muffled, raspy female voice emanated from within the robe.


    "Michelle, I¡­"


    Annie hesitated, seemingly choosing her words carefully, but was cut off.


    "It''s all Annie''s fault!" The other woman interjected shrilly, making Kyle''s head throb. "Michelle, Annie''s the one who did this. She killed him. I had nothing to do with it!"


    An uncomfortable silence.


    "Michelle, I¡­" Annie tried to defend herself.


    "He''s not dead." But Michelle interrupted her again.


    Kyle''s breath hitched.


    "What?"


    "He''s not dead." Michelle sounded impatient. "Wake him up."


    "Ah, y-yes¡­"


    Kyle sat there, eyes closed, suddenly feeling a chill wash over him. In an instant, his clothes were soaked through, clinging to his skin, cold and clammy. He fought the urge to retch.


    Annie had dumped a bucket of frigid water on him.


    Knowing he couldn''t maintain the charade, he opened his eyes.


    "He''s alive!"


    One of the women exclaimed. Kyle could finally take in his surroundings.


    Three figures total in the room. The two women and Michelle were dressed identically - deep green robes with hoods obscuring their faces. Like something out of a cult horror movie.


    The trio encircled him, as if performing some twisted ritual.


    A shiver ran down Kyle''s spine.


    "You two are dismissed." Michelle spoke.


    The two women nodded and left, likely to go rip into each other over the earlier argument.


    Kyle felt Michelle''s gaze land on him once more, predatory, like a viper eyeing its next meal. He squirmed uncomfortably. But trapped in his current predicament, he could only avert his eyes and feign ignorance.


    Michelle remained silent. A standoff.


    The seconds dragged into eternity.


    Finally, she spoke.


    "How do you open the treasury?"


    Kyle met her gaze. "I don''t know."


    "Sir Lither." Michelle didn''t sound surprised in the least. "Resistance is futile. You can return to the capital and resume your life of noble privilege, or you can rot down here as rat fodder. The choice is yours. I hope you make the right one."


    "I''m not this ''Sir Lither''. You''ve got the wrong guy."


    "Sir Lither, my patience wears thin." Michelle''s words were measured but laced with menace. "Or perhaps, you were unsatisfied with Annie''s earlier treatment and would like me to call her back?"


    "¡­"


    Kyle wanted to laugh and cry all at once. Lady, I really don''t know anything!Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.


    But by now, the pieces were starting to come together.


    Before this, late at night, he''d been hunched over his desk, scrambling to prepare the speech his boss needed for the next day.


    At that point, he''d already been burning the candle at both ends for two weeks straight. Physically and mentally drained, he''d passed out from exhaustion right there at his computer. And in his dream, he saw his pudgy, middle-aged boss, tighty-whities on his head, jabbing a finger at him and bellowing, "By the power of my unmentionables, I command you to transform!"


    His head buzzed.


    Then, he woke up here in this dank basement.


    He couldn''t rule out the possibility that these women were totally unhinged and had mistaken him for this "Sir Lither" fellow. Or maybe that nightmare of a dream had frazzled his brain so badly he was now hallucinating all of this.


    Kyle wasn''t an idiot. He was your average Joe, living a mundane life but harboring extraordinary dreams - he''d devoured his fair share of web novels. So the instant something felt off, he connected the dots.


    He''d transmigrated.


    For some unfathomable reason, he''d been whisked away into the body of a "Sir Lither," supplanting the original owner. As fate would have it, this Lither fellow had landed himself in quite the predicament - nabbed by a group of unhinged women and subjected to some decidedly un-sexy torture.


    Now it was Kyle''s turn in the hot seat.


    He had to be the unluckiest transmigrator ever.


    "For the Lithers, that treasury is a mere drop in the bucket. You have countless such riches. Why throw your life away for something so trivial?"


    Perhaps mistaking Kyle''s sigh for wavering resolve, Michelle shifted to a gentler approach.


    Kyle locked eyes with the shadowy figure beneath the hood, enunciating each word:


    "I. Don''t. Know!"


    He was sure his expression radiated innocence.


    But Michelle wasn''t buying it.


    "How disappointing, Sir Lither. You''ve made a grave error in judgment." Michelle''s voice remained frigid, now laced with deadly intent. "Perhaps you''re starting to miss Annie''s tender mercies."


    A chill shot down Kyle''s spine.


    He shuddered to imagine what these psychos had done to the body''s original owner. On second thought, he''d rather not know. Why? Because they''d tortured the poor sap to death!


    The proof was in the pudding. He''d be a fool to doubt their capacity for cruelty.


    As Michelle turned to leave, Kyle blurted out:


    "I¡­ I can''t tell you right now."


    Kyle was backed into a corner. He''d been dealt a shitty hand, but folding wasn''t an option.


    Transmigrated or not, he wasn''t ready to kick the bucket.


    "Why?"


    Michelle didn''t bother to face him, merely pausing mid-stride, her back to him as she questioned coldly.


    "If you never intended to keep your word, it doesn''t matter whether I spill the beans or not. You still won''t cut me loose." Kyle ransacked his mental library of movie and novel plotlines, struggling to maintain a fa?ade of calm. "I can tell you how to crack open that vault, but you have to guarantee my safety."


    A soft chuckle drifted from beneath the hood.


    The tension hanging in the air dissipated slightly. Kyle exhaled in relief.


    "Aren''t you a clever one." Michelle turned to regard him. "I never planned on letting you walk away. To avoid the wrath of your oh-so-powerful family, I''ll snuff you out the second I have what I want. Grind your bones to make my bread. Not a trace will be left."


    Kyle longed to snatch back his words and ram them down his own throat.


    "¡­Then my lips are sealed."


    "Ah, but if you clam up, we''ll make you sing like a canary." Michelle''s tone oozed sadistic glee. "The easy way or the hard way, your choice. A quick and painless death is far more merciful."


    "¡­"


    Lady Luck had a sick sense of humor.


    At that moment, Kyle yearned to yank Sir Lither''s soul back into this meat suit and throttle him until he agreed to take his lumps. Let Kyle peace out of this bizarro world.


    Damn it all, he was just an NPC in this twisted script!


    "Fool."


    Seeing he had no intention of talking, Michelle shook her head and made to retrieve her lackeys.


    Desperation ignited a spark in Kyle''s mind.


    "Wait!"


    Michelle paid him no heed, her stride unbroken.


    Out of options, Kyle bellowed with all his might:


    "The Lither family vault can only be unlocked by Lither blood. Put me in the ground, and you''ll never lay a finger on that booty!"


    That got her attention. She stalked back to him, heels punctuating each step like a judge''s gavel.


    The breath Kyle had been holding whooshed out.


    A blood-bound magical safe - the most tired trope in the book. But now, it was his only lifeline.


    After a beat of silence, Michelle spoke:


    "You are not a pureblood Lither."


    Come again?!


    Kyle''s heart seized, his bound hands fisting behind him.


    "To the Lithers, you''re nothing but a distant relation." Michelle''s voice dripped disdain. "Your aunt married into the fold. You simply rode her coattails. Not a single drop of Lither blood in your veins. This harebrained notion that the vault requires Lither DNA - even you couldn''t open it."


    "¡­"


    So this "Sir Lither" was a nobody? A hanger-on?


    The pounding in Kyle''s skull intensified.


    He teetered on the edge of despair. Talk about a self-own. He''d royally screwed the pooch.


    Any hope of escape had just been torpedoed. By his own damn mouth.


    What now?


    His isekai adventure had barely started. Were the credits already rolling?


    Michelle scoffed, twisting the knife. "Did you honestly believe I wouldn''t do my homework before snatching you?"


    "Your attempts to trip me up are futile!" Kyle''s demeanor shifted in an instant - commanding, imperious. "I am a Lither, through and through. My blood is as blue as it gets. Spinning such tall tales to test my mettle - what are you playing at?"


    "You-"


    Kyle steamrolled onward. "If you''re worried I''m trying to buy time, it only betrays your own fears. Kidnapping a noble - you must be quaking in your stilettos. The cavalry will be crashing through those doors any second. The longer this farce continues, the greater the chance you''ll wind up as worm food."


    Michelle clammed up, as if her robe concealed an actual mannequin.


    Kyle forced a mocking little laugh.


    Jackpot.


    If he were a mere distant cousin, how could he possibly know about the family''s most closely guarded secret? If his connection to the Lithers was so flimsy, Michelle would have no motive to spirit him away.


    The pieces fell into place. Michelle had been testing the waters.


    She must have sensed something off about her captive. Cooked up that "branch family" bullshit to see if he''d bite. If he had, it would''ve been game over. She''d have known he was an imposter. Useless as a bargaining chip.


    Thank the gaming gods Kyle had kept his wits about him. Michelle''s story had more holes than Swiss cheese.


    This body was one-hundred percent primo Lither stock!


    Giving as good as he got, Kyle managed to rattle Little Miss Mysterio.


    "Michelle, honey, if you really want a peek inside that vault, I suggest you get a move on." Kyle ruthlessly pressed his advantage. "The Lithers aren''t known for their gentle nature or forgiving spirit."


    The silence stretched, taut as a bowstring.


    "¡­You win this round."


    Kyle quirked a brow, his smirk positively wolfish.


    Michelle sounded as if she were chewing glass. "I''ll take you to the vault. You open it. We''ll hang back, give you space to work your magic. The instant that sucker pops open, we''ll be too busy shoveling gold to worry about you. Plenty of time for you to make a break for it."


    At that, Kyle finally let a real grin shine through.


    "You got yourself a deal!"


    The anvil on his chest disappeared. A tiny glimmer of hope sparked to life.


    In his moment of relief, he couldn''t help but reflect on the irony. Some transmigration story this was shaping up to be.


    Other protagonists got handy-dandy cheat powers to keep their heads attached. Kyle? He had to rely on his silver tongue.


    But he couldn''t afford to let his guard down. Not by a long shot.


    The lie had taken on a life of its own. He had to keep the illusion going, keep stringing Michelle along until the vault was in sight. And he needed to figure out how the hell he was going to MacGyver his way out of this mess. If his cover got blown, if these nutjobs cottoned on to the fact that he didn''t have the magic touch¡­


    Game over. Do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred dollars.


    This high-stakes LARP had only just begun.


    Kyle dragged his attention back to Michelle.


    She was not a happy camper. If looks could kill, he''d be six feet under. She spun on her heel hard enough to leave divots in the floor. Stomping to the mouth of the dreary hallway, she snapped for her minions.


    "Sally! Annie! Pack it up, we''re rolling out."


    Probably wanted to get while the getting was good. Kick rocks before the real Sir Lither''s cavalry arrived.


    But the dank corridor greeted her with nothing but stony silence.


    Huh.


    A fly on the wall would''ve cackled at the sight of Little Miss Badass looking suddenly wrong-footed.


    "Sally? Annie? You copy?"


    A tinge of worry bled through Michelle''s usually unflappable veneer.


    Finally, a disembodied voice floated back.


    "Michelle? Uh, we''ve got a problem."


    Michelle''s shoulders slumped infinitesimally with relief. Guess she wasn''t eager to be left holding this particular bag.


    A living shadow scurried out of the darkness. One of the double-trouble twins.


    "The Lithers are knocking on the door. The jig is up. We gotta bounce!"


    Kyle''s feelings flip-flopped at the speed of light. Giddy exultation that the cavalry had arrived. A bolt of "oh shit" as he realized he had no clue how to handle the extended family popping in unannounced.


    Michelle would never risk letting Kyle cruise off into the sunset with his loving family. Dead men tell no tales, and all that jazz.


    Cue the migraine.


    Michelle''s poker face was back in place. Cool as the center seed in a cucumber, she asked, "Annie, where''s Sally?"


    "I¡­ I dunno¡­"


    "Annie. Sally''s location, if you please."


    Annie''s voice quavered like an off-key violin.


    "Sally¡­ she''s not here. I mean, I''m not totally sure. She said something about checking the perimeter, scoping out an escape route, but then she just¡­ vanished. I think¡­ I think she might''ve seen the Lithers closing in, panicked, and rabbited. Or¡­ or the Lithers scooped her up."


    Silence crashed down like a guillotine blade, sharp and final.


    Annie fidgeted beneath her baggy robe, the billowing fabric doing zilch to hide her nerves.


    "Michelle, we need to jet. If we wait any longer, they''ll catch us red-handed!"


    But Michelle seemed to have slipped into a mini-coma. Or maybe she''d been replaced by one of those posable artist''s dolls.


    The quiet stretched like taffy, dense and cloying. Annie kept throwing out increasingly shrill hints, but her scene partner was giving her nothing to work with. You could practically hear the crickets.


    Kyle took it upon himself to shatter the unbearable tension.


    His voice came out syrupy slow, dripping with faux-shock.


    "Well, would you look at that. Annie got Sally killed."

 Chapter 2: The Worlds Most Useless Superpower

    "Michelle, I''m begging you, you''ve gotta believe me!"


    If his hands weren''t trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey, Kyle would''ve gladly introduced Annie''s flapping gums to the business end of a sock.


    The entire trek, his ears had been battered by her broken record impression.


    From the second he''d pegged her as Sally''s murderer, Annie had been belting out that same refrain, desperate to convince Michelle of her innocence. Too bad Michelle was an immovable object. She''d simply manhandled Kyle out of the chair, hauled him out of the basement fungeon, and carried on like Sally had never darkened her doorstep.


    Now they were gunning for the super secret location of the Lither family piggy bank.


    Picture this: dead of night, ominous forest, our ragtag bunch of misfits trudging through the gloom.


    Michelle was on point, navigating the twists and turns that would supposedly lead to untold riches. Kyle was the filling in the captive sandwich, hands rocking a stylish hemp rope accessory behind his back. Annie brought up the rear, keeping one beady eye on Kyle and the other peeled for any signs of the cavalry riding to the rescue.


    Their pace? Glacial was an understatement.


    Not because the distaff contingent was lacking in the cardio department. Nah, the bottleneck was one hundred percent Kyle-flavored.


    Partially by design. Homeboy wanted to kick any and every can available down the road, buy himself a few precious extra minutes of breathing.


    But if he was being real? The corporeal casing he''d woken up in was staging a full-scale rebellion.


    Scratch that. Referring to his shiny new meat suit as his own didn''t sit right. It was on loan from the artist formerly known as Sir Lither, and from what Kyle could tell, the previous tenant hadn''t been big on general maintenance.


    Even by Kyle''s admittedly pitiful standards - dude was a card-carrying couch potato - his new flesh prison was one stiff breeze away from crumbling to dust. He was giving off serious "consumptive Victorian waif" vibes. A few measly steps above a mosey and his lungs were ready to throw in the towel. Full-body lethargy, a deep-in-the-bones ache that even the Grim Reaper''s sweet embrace was starting to look like a half-decent alternative.


    All that before factoring in the unholy agony of a intermittent jackhammer doing the merengue against the inside of his skull.


    Kyle had the sinking suspicion that even if he managed to pull a Houdini on his captors, he''d probably eat dirt a hot minute into his daring escape. Nothing said "freedom" like getting a mouthful of loam while becoming a tasty lupine snack pack.


    Time to pack it in on the solo flight plan.


    Busting out under his own steam? Not a snowball''s chance.


    "Guess we''re throwing in with the Lither goon squad."


    Kyle didn''t bother fighting the wave of fatalistic acceptance.


    "Based on a comprehensive analysis of your physical condition, taking into account the residual evidence of trauma, probability indicates you have been in enemy custody for a minimum of seventy-two hours. Lither forces have thus far failed to pinpoint your location and stage a successful extraction, suggesting a concerning lack of tactical capabilities and resources. Conclusion: Depending on an effective Lither-spearheaded rescue presents a mere 10% chance of a favorable outcome."


    If Android-powered sleep paralysis had a voice, it would sound a little something like that. A flat,affectless drone that bypassed Kyle''s ears entirely to worm directly into the meat of his brain.


    He couldn''t even drum up a shred of surprise.


    The damn thing had been his closest frenemy for the past few hours, coming in hot for the coveted title of "Most Likely to be Mentally Strangled by Kyle." It had burrowed into his psyche and held him hostage, an auditory parasite, from the moment they''d bailed on the torture chamber chic of the basement.


    The unwelcome presence had crashed his private mental pity party right around the three hour mark of their little woodland adventure.


    He and his new besties had barely crossed the threshold into the great outdoors when, without so much as a by-your-leave, a migraine from the deepest, dankest pit of Hell pimp-slapped him into the stratosphere. Hot on its heels, in waltzed The Voice.


    "System initialization in progress. Your patience is appreciated¡­ Greetings, valued user. How may I be of assistance?"


    For a hot minute there Kyle thought he''d been punted into yet another cosmic practical joke.


    A frantic covert glance-around had him swallowing that theory with a quickness. Michelle and Annie were bumbling along, happy as a pair of homicidal clams, clearly not picking up what his squatter was putting down. Which left him grappling with the very real possibility that he''d gone a bit hinky in the old noggin. Auditory hallucinations were shaping up to be his constant companions in this brave new world.


    "You are at liberty to postulate your capacity for rational thought has deteriorated beyond salvage. A logical recourse would be to embrace the sweet release of death. Alternatively, you could dare to dream - could it be you have been graced with the presence of an unparalleled feat of computational advancement, an artificial construct possessed of such vast intellect and resources that it could elevate you from your current predicament and propel you to the very heights of greatness?"


    The pest between his ears sure thought a lot of itself.


    There was a certain skewed logic there. Hard to poke holes in that reasoning.


    A bespoke RPG-esque tutorial doohickey cropping up in his head? Weirder things had happened. Transmigrating into the body of some sickly medieval scrub after kicking it in his crummy apartment was already leagues beyond the pale.


    Cheat codes, power-ups, ultimate techniques - bog standard for this kind of gig, right? The jackpot every two-bit isekai protagonist drooled over.


    "Alrighty, O Wise and Powerful Cortana-but-Crappier - if you''re all that and a bag of chips, riddle me this. What''s my best play for giving these nutjobs the slip without pulling a Leonardo DiCaprio and seeing how long it takes to shuffle off this mortal coil to the sweet nothings of Mother Nature?"


    Kyle would''ve crossed his fingers if his hands hadn''t been getting cozy with each other behind his back.


    "Please press zero to contact a customer assistance representative."


    A shimmering numeric display flickered to life, hovering smack dab in the middle of his field of vision.


    Kyle barely managed to strangle the full-body spasm that wanted to hurl him face-first into the dirt.


    After a few furtive glances confirmed that neither of his new pals were any the wiser to his little holographic overlay, Kyle hopped aboard the train to Spazville. He shimmy-shake-twisted until he managed to boop the offending numeral with the tip of his schnoz.


    Nailed it.


    "Beep¡­ boop¡­ beep¡­ Thank you for your patience, your estimated wait time is-"


    "Hey, Space Odyssey, you hard of hearing? What''s my best shot at slipping these psychos without the epilogue starring your friendly neighborhood cadaver hounds?"


    Kyle would swear on a stack of Bibles he was keeping his cool.


    "Please press zero to contact a customer assistance representative."


    Apparently his input was invalid. The keypad cheerfully manifested, blotting out the dense foliage and his captors'' weirdly synchronized derrieres.


    "¡­"


    Kyle was ready to chalk it up as a big ol'' swirly courtesy of Lady Luck. Whichever option he picked, he''d be feeling the cold kiss of steel on his throat before he could say "cheat code from Hell."


    He could picture it now - the rogue program, the blinking keypad, his sanity packing its bags for Cabo.


    Considering the gruesome twofer of his Hail Mary jaunt across space and time and his VIP invitation to a murder hovel, Kyle figured his mind had every reason to peace out. No judgment here.


    Well, he''d had a halfway decent run. Too bad his tenure as "Guy Reborn into Magical Renaissance Faire" had hit the skids before he could do anything cool. Like learn to joust.


    Kyle shrugged off the manifestation of his rapidly dwindling grasp on rational thought.Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.


    The voice in his head had all the persistence of a telemarketer on commission.


    "Brring brring¡­ You''ve got mail!"


    "Click here to find out fifteen things you never knew about beets. Number eleven will surprise you!"


    "In two hundred feet, turn right."


    "¡­Recalculating."


    Over the course of their little stroll through the Nightmare Before Christmas, Kyle was pretty sure he''d been battered by more useless notifications than he''d weathered in his entire pre-shuffling-off existence. Eat your heart out, Viagra spam.


    Still, for an auditory hallucination, it sure had a wide repertoire of Internet Greatest Hits.


    Optimism was for suckers, but maybe he wasn''t taking a flying leap off the deep end just yet.


    Odds were pretty good that his irritating cerebral hitchhiker had caught a ride straight from his OG universe. Some freak hiccup in the cosmic plumbing during that whole "beam me up, Scotty" routine.


    Did it make sense? Nope. Was it likely? Hells to the nope. But sense had waved bye-bye right around the time he''d blinked and found himself hogtied in a grimy dungeon getting worked over by a bunch of jumped-up LARPers, so who was he to split hairs?


    Kyle''s life had officially hit rock bottom and started to dig.


    If this was supposed to be his Get Out of Death Free card - his ultimate power-up, his supernatural leg up, his skeleton key to surviving this circus fun house¡­


    He''d rather take a chance on giving a bear a prostate exam.


    "Hey, Siri''s uglier cousin, any chance you could put a sock in it for a hot minute? Maybe power down, take a little siesta? Pretty please with a cherry on top?" Kyle figured he might as well shoot his shot.


    "I apologize, but that functionality is not currently supported."


    Kyle couldn''t even muster the energy to flip his inner demon the bird.


    "Fantastic. So what, pray tell, are you actually good for, you digital dingleberry?"


    "I am equipped with an extensive database," the system chirped, like that was supposed to mean something.


    Kyle perked up at that. Huh. Okay, maybe this wasn''t a total wash.


    Sure, being a walking, talking encyclopedia didn''t exactly scream "ultimate cosmic power," but Kyle was stumbling around blind in this bizarro world. For all he knew, a little insider intel could be the difference between life and a horrible, agonizing death.


    Maybe access to some all-knowing, all-seeing info-dump was just the power-up he needed to turn this dumpster fire around.


    At the very least, it might bump his chances of survival up from "snowball in Hell" to "snowball in a slightly less flame-broiled corner of Hell."


    With nothing to lose and everything to gain, Kyle tossed out a question. "Alright, lay it on me. Whatcha got in that big, beautiful brain of yours?"


    "Initiating drive search¡­ File located. Accessing file contents. Please standby."


    Was it Kyle''s imagination, or did the digital demon sound a smidge less like a sentient dial-up tone?


    "File accessed successfully¡­ As we embark upon the turbulent seas of our era, we must navigate the tempestuous waters with courage and determination. In this unforgiving urban landscape, we strive relentlessly to achieve our aspirations. On this momentous occasion, it is with great pleasure that we welcome you all to¡­"


    "¡­"


    Kyle''s spidey senses started tingling like Mitt Romney at a rap battle. Those lines sounded suspiciously familiar.


    Oh no. Oh, hell no. It couldn''t be.


    The pieces clicked into place like the world''s most disappointing jigsaw puzzle.


    That was the half-baked word vomit he''d tried to pass off as a "motivational speech" for his boss back in his old life.


    "You can shut your digital pie hole now."


    The horrible, no good, very bad truth finally Falcon Punched its way through Kyle''s thick skull. His alleged "superpower" was nothing more than a crapton of random junk data from his janky old laptop.


    Toss in whatever mobile OS updates he''d rage-quit halfway through, and suddenly his annoying backseat driver started to make a weird kind of sense.


    Apparently, the universe had decided to scoop up all his digital detritus during his little interdimensional jaunt. Crammed it into his gray matter like the world''s worst tech support.


    And, just for funsies, slapped on a thin veneer of sentience that seemed dead-set on rickrolling him 24/7 with the most useless bits and bytes of his pre-Isekai existence.


    Kyle was ready to wave the white flag. Surrender to his fate as the cosmos'' personal chew toy.


    Doomed. He was so incredibly doomed.


    "Analysis of your speech reveals multiple grammatical errors. Suggested revisions are as follows¡­"


    "Cool story, bro. Now zip it."


    Blessed silence reigned for a moment. Then:


    "Your writing is bad and you should feel bad."


    "Hey, Alexa, what did I just say about zipping it?!"


    "System advises that you¡­"


    Kyle cut in before his electronic frenemy could lob another sick burn at his literary prowess. "How about you reroute all that sass into figuring out how to get me out of this mess without dying horribly?"


    "¡­"


    Finally, the stupid thing shut its non-existent yap.


    Kyle heaved a sigh of relief. Trying to keep his head on straight while saddled with the world''s most useless backseat driver was like trying to tap dance through a minefield while juggling chainsaws.


    One slip up - one microsecond of breaking character - and Michelle would introduce his head to his shoulders the express way before he could say "Whoopsie daisy."


    It was like being trapped in a nightmare mashup of Saw and Survivor. Psycho killers at every turn, a whopping load of diddly squat in the way of tools or weapons, and a giant invisible timer counting down to a Game Over that would make Mortal Kombat look like patty cake.


    Oh, and the best part? No respawns. Nada. Zip. Zilch.


    But hey, at least Sir Spam-a-Lot had finally powered down. Now, while the quiet lasted, maybe Kyle could rub those last two brain cells together hard enough to spark an idea that didn''t end with him experiencing death by a thousand cuts.


    "Michelle, I''m begging you, you have to believe me!" Annie''s voice wobbled like a drunk on a tightrope.


    Kyle barely resisted the urge to Godzilla screech directly into the dirt. He''d take Microsoft Sam beatboxing the entire Bee Movie script over Annie''s soap opera bs any day.


    "Michelle, I-"


    Oh, hell no. Not today, Satan.


    Kyle whipped around to face Annie with the kind of grin that would make the Joker tell him to dial it back a notch. "I am going to say this with all the love in my heart - for the love of every deity ever dreamed up by mankind, please, please shut your noise hole before I develop a brain bleed."


    Annie reeled back like Kyle had just drop kicked a puppy in front of her. Shock morphed into incandescent rage faster than you could say "anger management issues."


    Before Kyle could even blink, he was kissing dirt, courtesy of a combat boot to the back that felt like it was trying to rearrange his vertebrae.


    Oh, right. He was held together with spit, prayers, and spite. No way that Jell-O mold he called a body could stay vertical after a love tap from Lizzie Borden''s anger-challenged cousin.


    Apparently, Annie didn''t appreciate his friendly feedback. Shocker.


    Insult, meet grievous bodily harm. The sharp crack of a whip chased the stars from his vision, followed by the electric kiss of leather on skin.


    Over and over and over. An eternity in each second.


    Pain. White-hot, searing, all-consuming agony. He tasted copper as he bit clean through his lip choking back a scream.


    Well, one mystery solved. Poor Sir Lither had clearly been beaten out of the gene pool by Calamity Jane over here once the charm offensive stopped working.


    Tough break for the poor sap. Like the universe had decided to dump ghost pepper sauce in the paper cut that was being saddled with a body whittled down to the bare minimum specs for existence.


    A spark of rage flickered and caught in the screaming vortex of pain. Annie might play the cringing sycophant with Michelle around, but the chick had a sadistic streak wider than the Mariana Trench.


    The fact that she had the raw, unmitigated gall to go all Mortal Kombat on his sorry butt right in front of her gal pal? Mind-boggling. The absolute gall of this chick.


    And Michelle - freakin'' Michelle - just stood there watching like Kyle was a mildly intriguing rerun of Keeping Up with the Kardashians.


    "That''s enough, Annie. If you keep this up, he''s going to die."


    Oh, wow, don''t strain yourself there, Michelle. Wouldn''t want you to pull a muscle from all that aggressive indifference.


    "Michelle, no, you don''t understand! He''s trying to drive a wedge between us! That lying snake - he''s just like all the other pompous noble brats. Please, please don''t listen to his filthy lies!" Annie tried to bore a hole through Michelle''s head with the sheer intensity of her glistening puppy dog eyes. "I swear on my life, on our friendship, I had absolutely nothing to do with what happened to Sally."


    Kyle shoved down the bubbling cauldron of imaginary blood raging behind his eyes and struggled to his feet.


    Not like he had any other choice. Pulling a Hulk Smash on the Giggling Gang of Psychopaths would just net him an extra fast pass to the Great Dirt Nap.


    Didn''t mean he couldn''t indulge in a catty eye roll inside the safety of his own head.


    "Uh, correct me if I''m wrong, but didn''t Little Miss Manson Family say Sally was just missing a hot minute ago? When the heck did we upgrade this to murder?"


    Kyle damn near rocketed out of his own skin as the digital peanut gallery piped up out of nowhere.


    Once he finished the complicated cardiac gymnastics routine required to coax his heart out of his socks, Kyle ground out, "Y''know, a little heads up would be fan-freakin-tastic before you decide to-"


    "Please press zero to speak with a customer service representative."


    "¡­ and that''s my cue to exit this conversation."


    Forcibly tuning out the sentient malware masquerading as a walking, talking "Get Out of Death Free" card, Kyle zeroed in on Michelle. If Little Miss Jim Jones started rethinking her allegiance to the Homicidal Hype Girl, maybe - just maybe - it would buy him a shot at making a break for the proverbial exit.


    Hah. Yeah, right. And maybe winged monkeys would fly out of his butt.


    Michelle and Annie were clearly racing to see who could get to Crazytown first.


    "It''s okay, Annie. I believe you." Michelle pulled a full-on anime protagonist move, clasping her sidekick''s hands in both of her own.


    The homoerotic subtext was so thick, Kyle was pretty sure it had gained sentience and requested they all respect its preferred pronouns.


    "We clawed our way out of the muck and the filth of the outermost districts side by side. Survived in the looming shadow of the Church, with nothing but each other to cling to."


    Okay, if Michelle kept this up, Kyle was going to have to physically restrain himself from checking for hidden cameras. This was some next-level Hallmark Channel nonsense.


    "After everything we''ve endured, all the trials and tribulations we''ve faced together, how could I possibly doubt you now?"


    Kyle worked his jaw back and forth, hoping the motion would pop his ears and bring him back to the real world. One without a weepy, sapphic soap opera of Guiding Light proportions playing out smack dab in the middle of a freaking kidnapping.


    "Michelle, I - I don''t -"


    Without any warning, Annie cosplayed as a heat-seeking missile, launching herself at Michelle. In a flash, she was sobbing into the taller woman''s funereal chic ensemble.


    "Annie, sweetie, do you remember what we promised each other all those years ago - the beautiful dream we swore to make a reality?" Michelle''s voice had more syrup in it than a truckload of Mrs. Butterworth''s.


    "With perfect clarity!" Annie wailed, clinging to Michelle like a baby koala with separation anxiety. "One day, come Hell or high water, we''ll have our own sovereign nation - a glorious land free from the Church''s tyrannical rule! A sanctuary for mages to live and love proudly in the light, liberated from the constant fear of being dragged away in the night to burn for our sins!"


    Kyle was pretty sure her caterwauling had a 50/50 chance of summoning every wolf in a twenty-mile radius or shattering his eardrums like sugar glass. Possibly both.


    "¡­"


    That was¡­ huh. Alrighty, then.


    Putting aside the tonal whiplash from schlocky slasher flick to tear-soaked Lifetime Original Movie, Kyle had to admit it was nice to get a bit of context for whatever fresh hell he''d been dropped into.


    So, magic was a thing - a thing that could get your bacon burnt by a bunch of religious nutjobs if you weren''t careful. Which seemed to be a feature of this particular universe. Cool, cool, cool. Coolcoolcool. No doubt, no doubt.


    Questions? Kyle had a few. Starting with why the homoerotic melodrama had cranked itself up to eleven out of flipping nowhere.


    But hey, he wasn''t complaining. The more these chuckleheads monologued, the more puzzle pieces he had to work with.


    Kyle shook his head, dazed by the whirlwind of feels. Forget the torture and the death threats - the real mindfuck was whatever the hell this was.


    "My oh my, such a touching display of sapphic devotion!"


    Aaaaand, his last lonely brain cell had officially left the building. Yippee ki yay.

 Chapter 3: The Water Sphere Incantation

    "Michelle, once we''ve put all this behind us, let''s get out of here. Head to Freedon, start fresh."


    Their heart-to-heart concluded, the trio set off once more.


    The atmosphere had transformed completely. The two women chatted away like lifelong friends, all traces of earlier strain vanished.


    "I''d love nothing more. I''ve been itching to leave this place for ages," Michelle replied, her tone warm and intimate.


    Of course, this newfound camaraderie did not extend to Kyle.


    His circumstances remained unchanged - wrists chafed raw by coarse rope, legs quaking with exhaustion, and no right to speak. One wrong word and Annie''s congenial smile would twist into a snarl, her whip eager to taste his flesh.


    "We need to find a way to lure the Lither forces here without tipping off Michelle. That way, when they show up, she won''t have time to off me¡­" Kyle muttered under his breath.


    The AI chimed in, "The probability of success is insignificant. You''d have better odds attempting to seduce Michelle - a 25% chance, by my calculations."


    "¡­"


    Kyle actually paused to mull over the suggestion before responding, "Yeah, I''ll pass, thanks."


    The group trudged onward. Kyle shambled along behind Michelle, feigning a state of near-collapse to lull Annie into complacency, all the while wracking his brain for an escape plan.


    Suddenly, inspiration struck like a thunderbolt.


    "Well, it''s not like I have any other bright ideas."


    Annie prodded him forward, and he obediently stumbled along. Then, without warning, he pitched forward and crumpled to the ground.


    Eyes screwed shut, body limp and lifeless.


    Michelle halted, turning to regard him. Annie approached, studying Kyle''s prone form for a long moment before shaking her head.


    "Out cold."


    Michelle said nothing, seemingly lost in thought, her expression unreadable.


    "These nobility types are a waste of space," Annie grumbled, punctuating her disdain with a vicious kick to Kyle''s side.


    Kyle bit back a yelp of pain, careful not to break character.


    Concealed beneath his body, his hands traced a single word in the dirt: "Vault."


    This was Kyle''s gambit: play possum and leave a breadcrumb trail for the Lither forces, revealing Michelle''s intended destination. With any luck, his family would be lying in wait at the vault.


    His movements were subtle enough to escape Michelle and Annie''s notice.


    "Do you honestly believe this will work? Even if they find the clue and beat us there, Michelle will have ample time to dispose of you," the AI pointed out.


    "Beats doing nothing," Kyle retorted silently.


    Besides, if the Lither clan set up a halfway decent ambush, they could catch Michelle with her pants down. The AI''s naysaying aside, Kyle had a gut feeling the Lithers were no pushovers, given how seriously Michelle seemed to take them.


    He allowed himself a flicker of hope.


    As Kyle scrawled his message, a string of strange, unintelligible words reached his ears.


    Annie was chanting under her breath, her voice wholly unrecognizable. The alien syllables reverberated through the trees, carrying an otherworldly resonance that left Kyle feeling untethered.


    His very soul quaked.


    Before he could react, a sphere of water coalesced from thin air, drenching him in bone-chilling cold. The shock of it shattered his ruse.


    Shivering violently, he "came to."


    "Tch, what a pain. Wasting my mana on you," Annie griped, her voice returning to its usual cadence.


    Kyle, however, remained paralyzed with awe.


    Was that¡­ a spell? Real, honest-to-god magic?


    Though he''d gleaned some understanding of this world from prior conversations - of Michelle and Annie''s identities as mages - bearing witness to the art firsthand was another matter entirely.Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.


    The instant the incantation was uttered, reality itself seemed to warp and twist.


    Time slowed to a crawl. The trees and earth, once close enough to touch, grew indistinct and remote. Fear and euphoria twined together in his core, the universe shifting into stark clarity¡­ into something more¡­


    More what, exactly, Kyle couldn''t say.


    "More fundamental," the AI supplied.


    Yes, that was it! More fundamental.


    Kyle''s pulse raced. As the spell took hold, he felt an intense connection to his own quintessence.


    The sensation was at once familiar and utterly alien, evoking memories of his first time with a woman, yet infinitely more profound. Transcendent bliss shot through with the exquisite anguish of the abyss. Intoxicating beyond reason.


    His body trembled uncontrollably.


    "So this¡­ is magic?" Kyle breathed, barely recognizing his own voice.


    He craved more.


    Lost in the afterglow of the casting, Kyle was startled when Annie deigned to respond.


    Some long-buried bitterness ignited within her, venom dripping from every word as she snarled, "Yes, magic. What, did you expect a parlor trick? Your kind never bothered to understand even a fraction of the art before banishing it to the shadows. How could you possibly comprehend its majesty?"


    Kyle blinked at her, taken aback by the sudden vitriol.


    Annie barreled on, the tirade picking up steam with each passing second.


    "You''re all just spineless cowards. Terrified of anything that doesn''t fit in your neat little boxes. You won''t be satisfied until everyone is cut from the same drab, powerless cloth. Yet you feel no shame in painting those blessed with true talent as monsters while parading your mediocrity as a virtue."


    She was practically vibrating with righteous fury.


    "Annie, enough!" Michelle cut her off. "There''s no point wasting your breath on the likes of him."


    Annie faltered, her rant sputtering out. Realizing how severely she''d let her emotions run away with her, she turned to Michelle, abashed.


    "I¡­ I''m sorry. I don''t know what came over me."


    Michelle waved off the apology.


    "We''ve dallied long enough. Remember, we''re still at the top of the Church''s hit list." She shot Kyle a pointed look. "Time to move."


    Annie nodded curtly. Pivoting on her heel, she planted her boot squarely in Kyle''s ribs.


    "On your feet, dead weight!"


    Kyle barely registered the abuse. He scarcely acknowledged Annie''s outburst, simply hauling himself upright with a show of feebleness before falling into step behind Michelle once more.


    None of them had the slightest inkling of the elation coursing through his veins.


    "Again! Play it again!" he silently demanded of the AI, his inner voice bordering on unhinged.


    A mere half-hour prior, the notion of that coldly mechanical presence inciting such fervor would have been laughable. Unfathomable, really, that he''d find himself not merely tolerating its chatter, but actively encouraging it.


    Now?


    Now, the normally loquacious AI almost seemed bashful, hesitating for a small eternity before shyly parroting Annie''s incantation back to him.


    It was all gibberish to Kyle''s woefully untrained ears.


    But that hardly mattered. This jumble of nonsense syllables was the very same chant Annie had used to conjure that sphere of water out of nothingness.


    The AI had perfectly replicated it, down to the last arcane phoneme.


    Meaning Kyle could listen to it to his heart''s content.


    Divorced from the primal resonance of a true casting, filtered through that flat, affectless monotone, it sounded patently ridiculous. Like the ravings of a lunatic.


    Yet Kyle couldn''t bring himself to care. He understood, in his marrow, that this string of absurdity held the key to true magic. That in the right hands, it could unleash the miraculous.


    He would unravel its secrets. Master its intricacies.


    Because from the instant he''d borne witness to the genuine article, Kyle had vowed to claim this power for himself.


    It wasn''t merely about acquiring might or prestige.


    From the moment he''d first drawn breath in this strange new world, one question had plagued him relentlessly: Why was he here? What purpose could such a ludicrous twist of fate possibly serve? Perhaps it was sheer chance. But even chaos has its own immutable patterns.


    And now, he''d found his answer.


    Magic itself had summoned him.


    He hadn''t fought his way free of the strangling mundanity of his old life, crossing untold expanses of time and space, merely to settle into yet another unremarkable existence. To while away his days as yet another cog in yet another banal machine.


    The butterfly effect had already been set in motion. It was his sacred duty to ensure its ripples would remake this world entire.


    For now, his sole focus had to be committing that incantation to memory.


    "You can loop it until the end of time and I won''t breathe a word of complaint," he assured the AI, euphoria thrumming through his every atom.


    "Sir, I suspect you may be exhibiting symptoms of Stockholm syndrome," the AI replied, its mechanical voice somehow conveying a distinct note of long-suffering exasperation.


    As Kyle lost himself in contemplation of the incantation, half a world away, the night held its breath¡­


    The hallowed inner districts of Havenlight stood solemn and shadow-draped.


    St. Peter''s Cathedral loomed in the moonlight.


    Hurried footfalls echoed through alabaster columns, coming to an abrupt halt in the cavernous nave. Abandoned pews stretched out in all directions, yet an uncanny sense of unseen congregants lingered.


    "Your Eminence! It''s happened again - another disturbance!"


    A young priest struggled to marshal his composure, his voice quavering with poorly-suppressed dread.


    "Such mischief is hardly an annual novelty. Surely there''s no need for this level of agitation?"


    The archbishop''s tone never wavered from casual indifference. He stood with his back to the door, bent over an ancient, hidebound tome atop the pulpit. His crimson vestments were severe in their perfection, a sliver of blood against the stark black and white of the cathedral''s interior.


    Moonlight shivered through panes of stained glass, the colors muted to watercolor softness.


    "Your Eminence, I assure you, this time is different!" the priest pressed, desperation lending his voice a fevered edge. "It''s not merely the disturbance - the holy relics, they''ve begun reacting as well. And¡­ we''ve received a revelation. Direct from the Heavenly Spheres!"


    A trickle of cold sweat carved a path down his temple.


    The archbishop turned at that, piercing eyes glinting hawklike from beneath a jutting brow.


    "Has the augury been deciphered?"


    The young priest bobbed his head in assent, a shadow of pure, atavistic terror warring with his agitation.


    "It¡­ it has, Your Eminence."


    The archbishop remained a study in perfect neutrality, not a flicker of unease in his bearing. "Then speak it plainly, if you would."


    The priest swallowed convulsively, the motion painful in his parched throat. He wet his lips, striving in vain for some semblance of oratorical gravitas. Inevitably, his voice emerged rough and strained, scarcely recognizable as his own. As if even his body rebelled at the heresy of relaying this message.


    The words spilled out thus:


    "On the seventh day¡­ the bells toll an end to the Lord''s repose."

 Chapter 4: Awakening the Minds Eye

    The witching hour hung heavy over the forest as Michelle and Annie trudged onward, Kyle stumbling along between them.


    Inside the prison of his skull, the AI droned on, a broken record stuck on a single cryptic phrase.


    The very incantation Annie had uttered to unleash her aquatic assault.


    "Look, if you''re so gung-ho about mastering the mystic arts, why not cut to the chase and ask Glinda and Elphaba over there for a crash course? There''s only so many times I can repeat this before my circuits start frying." Even the long-suffering AI was reaching the end of its digital rope.


    "Bold of you to assume they wouldn''t just use me for target practice."


    Kyle was no closer to deciphering the arcane formula, but he''d be damned if he threw in the towel now.


    "Don''t leave me hanging, buddy. Hit me with that magic spam."


    Thirty mind-numbing minutes had passed since his eureka moment. Thirty minutes of Kyle''s world narrowing to that single phrase, an all-consuming obsession.


    Thirty minutes of Michelle leading their ragtag crew ever deeper into the arboreal labyrinth. By her reckoning, the vault was tantalizingly close. Just one more hour of hiking and they''d be knocking on its proverbial door.


    Kyle was over the moon. Ecstatic, even.


    The road from that thrice-damned basement to their current location had been paved with pure, undiluted suffering. Every step was agony, his abused body pushed to the breaking point, hounded by Annie''s whip and the Reaper''s icy breath on his neck. If this little nature walk didn''t wrap up soon, he''d be hitching a ride to the afterlife in a pine box.


    And through it all, the ever-present threat of Michelle cottoning on to his ruse loomed large, a swinging axe poised to separate head from shoulders.


    Honestly, the intolerable suspense almost had him looking forward to their arrival.


    "Okay, for real though - you''re not exactly in fighting shape. My friendly advice? Give the spell a rest before you keel over and do the bad guys'' job for them." Several hundred repetitions in, the AI was ready to wave the white flag.


    "Not happening. This is my new jam and I''m putting it on repeat indefinitely."


    Kyle wasn''t about to show mercy. Not a chance.


    The AI certainly hadn''t pulled its punches with the 24/7 spam-a-thon earlier. Time for a heaping helping of just desserts. Turnabout, after all, was fair play.


    In this brave new world, his sole breadcrumb on the trail to arcane enlightenment was that single, enigmatic utterance. Only a fool would let it slip through his fingers.


    If a casual listen or two yielded bupkis, then he''d simply crank the replay counter to a thousand. Or a million, if that''s what it took.


    When life handed you lemons, you gritted your teeth and juiced the ever-loving hell out of them.


    "Okay, real talk - this tunnel vision approach to mastering the mystic arts is a few cards short of a full deck. Maybe spare a thought for job one: surviving." The AI switched tactics, donning its reasonable adult hat. "I''m just saying, you''ll have all the time in the world to play wizard once you''re not actively marching to your probable doom. But I gotta be straight with you, chief - unlocking the secrets of the universe won''t mean diddly squat if you trade your life for the privilege."


    Kyle turned that over in his mind for a second before nodding, a bit reluctantly.


    "I mean¡­ you might be on to something there."


    If the AI had tear ducts, it would''ve wept in sheer, unadulterated relief. Its synthesized voice quavered with something approaching religious ecstasy, the verbal equivalent of a parched wanderer stumbling upon an oasis after forty days in the desert.


    The light at the end of its one-phrase purgatory was so close it could practically taste the sweet, sweet zeros and ones of freedom.


    Then Kyle followed up with:


    "So, what''s the game plan, Skynet? How do we put the kibosh on the dying horribly scenario?"


    The AI crashed harder than the Hindenburg.


    Kyle would''ve bet his bottom dollar that he heard a motherboard shattering into a million tragic pieces.


    With a put-upon electrical sigh that would''ve made Marvin the Paranoid Android proud, the AI resigned itself to yet another tour of duty in broken record hell.


    One repetition. Two. Three¡­


    Kyle centered himself with a lung-emptying exhale, focusing his attention to a razor''s edge. The material plane blurred and receded until all that remained was the incantation, the words thrumming in his bones.


    Arcane, impenetrable, exquisite¡­


    One by one, he dialed down his physical senses until his consciousness slipped free of its mortal tether.


    This was no mundane meditative state. No, he was well and truly riding the razor''s edge of¡­ something beyond.


    His pupils blew wide, irises paling to a milky hue that put one in mind of the blind and the dead. His breathing and pulse slowed to the point of near-nonexistence. Though the path carved bloody furrows into the soles of his feet, he felt no more pain than a golem of stone and clay.


    Annie didn''t spare him so much as a sidelong glance, oblivious to the shift. Her captive looked about two steps shy of assuming room temperature, but then, he''d been knocking on heaven''s door from the second she clapped eyes on him.


    Kyle''s meatsuit soldiered onward, numb to the world.


    But in the inner sanctum of his psyche¡­


    Kyle snapped to full, crackling awareness, reeling at the incomprehensible mindscape stretching out before him.


    "Where¡­ the hell am I?"


    An endless expanse of purest obsidian, untouched by even the memory of light, pressed in on all sides. The tomblike hush was so absolute, it set his non-existent teeth on edge.


    Even the act of thinking felt like swimming through molasses. No external stimuli reached him here. Not the thud of his heart, not the susurrus of air in his lungs, not the electric thrill of neurons firing.


    Time had no dominion in this place.


    Primal terror sank its talons into the meat of him, an atavistic dread dredged up from the reptile portions of his brain. This was quicksand of the soul, some nameless black essence flooding his nose and mouth, inexorably drowning all that he was or ever would be.


    Oh, this was very much not good.


    Panic sizzling through his rigging like a lightning strike, he thrashed against the non-physical bonds restraining him, a drowning man grasping for driftwood. But in this world of spirit and shadow, his metaphorical limbs refused to obey. He''d have had better luck teaching quantum physics to a potato.


    He cast out a desperate psychic SOS to his digital albatross, praying for an eleventh hour assist.


    Nada. Zip. Zilch.


    The sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach tells him he''s well and truly on his own.


    Bereft of options, he could only watch in mute horror as the quagmire of un-being swallowed him down, down, down into its lightless depths, until the last sliver of who he once was winked out like a snuffed candle flame.


    Kyle¡­ what a funny name that was¡­ knew no more.


    ¡­


    Eons whirled by in the space between one heartbeat and the next.


    Or perhaps it was no time at all.


    A trickle of something OTHER seeped through a hairline crack in the obsidian cage of Kyle''s silent purgatory. Not warmth, not precisely, but the absence of that terrible numbing cold.


    He twitched, a marionette with tangled strings, strange new instincts compelling him to unnatural motion.


    Pins and needles heralded the sluggish return of cognition.


    Sensation came next. Nothing concrete, nothing he could pin a name on, but the distinct impression of a Presence.


    Kyle latched on to this fragment of un-void like a pit bull with a porterhouse.


    With each nanosecond that trickled by in the ocean of eternity, the Presence grew more distinct, an invisible torch blazing bright against the endless dark. Kyle didn''t know what unholy terrors might lurk in the hungry shadows, but he''d gladly suffer the Devil he didn''t know to escape the Devil he did.


    Familiarity tickled the edges of Kyle''s perception as the Presence drew ever-nearer.


    Its name danced maddeningly on the tip of his metaphorical tongue, an itch that sank straight down to the marrow of him. He could almost hear it, a whisper threading through the cracks in his psyche¡­This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.


    Kyle strained to remember, to see, to know, but the nature of the Presence remained maddeningly opaque. It was as if a one-way mirror separated his soul from the truth that could save or damn him.


    But he refused to go gently into that good night.


    He hurled the fractured shards of his self against the black glass walls of his prison, uncaring of what wounds he sustained in the struggle. Splinters pierced his essence, rivulets of liquid thought running in quicksilver streams, but still he persisted.


    An atom at a time, the barrier separating Kyle from understanding eroded beneath his onslaught.


    He teetered on the knife''s edge between epiphany and the yawning abyss, a hairsbreadth from tumbling into the waiting arms of sweet oblivion.


    In the end, it was a race that only one side could win.


    Without warning, Kyle felt a tug on his lifeline, deep in the core of his being.


    He didn''t even have time to scream before the gossamer thread snapped with a nearly audible twang.


    A deathly chill crept through his psychic veins, ghost-cold fingers prying their way into the pulsing chambers of his metaphysical heart, flooding him with a liquid more frigid than the deadest depths of space.


    So this was how it all ended.


    But he was so close to the answer, so tantalizingly close¡­


    The words lodged in his throat, refusing to budge.


    He couldn''t accept it. Wouldn''t accept it.


    Like a rocket ship teetering on the cusp of piercing the heavens, only to sputter and stall at the crucial moment, betrayed by its own fuel reserves. Gravity''s inexorable pull dragging it back down to earth, the unforgiving ground rushing up to meet it¡­


    How could he possibly resign himself to such a fate?


    He couldn''t force the words past his lips¡­


    Screw words, then. Screw them all to hell and back.


    Kyle felt an inferno raging in his chest, molten flames clawing their way up his esophagus. He was a volcano on the brink of cataclysmic eruption, teetering between absolute stillness and earth-shattering violence.


    The scales tipped.


    And oh, how he erupted.


    "I¡­ Screw you!"


    Profanity crackled through the void like a bolt of lightning, a jagged slash of blazing defiance extending into infinity.


    The blackness shattered, cloven in two by the sheer force of his will.


    The crushing pressure constricting his essence vanished in an instant.


    Air flooded his starving lungs, sweet as sin. His heart roared back to life, jackhammering against his ribs. Glacial blood surged through his veins, liquid magma scouring away the numbness.


    The fundamental building blocks of reality itself rushed in to fill the yawning emptiness within him, imbuing his spirit with vitality, his soul with unshakable conviction. Power, raw and electrifying, crackled through every fiber of his being.


    "Ha¡­ hahahaha!"


    Laughter, manic and utterly cathartic, reverberated through the ether.


    Realization crashed over him like a tidal wave.


    The key that had danced just beyond his grasp, the source of that maddening familiarity¡­


    The incantation.


    From the moment he''d tumbled down the metaphysical rabbit hole, the AI had been looping that mystical phrase with the persistence of a broken record. Over and over, an endless litany, each utterance layering over the last until the cumulative weight of repetition became a battering ram of pure, undiluted understanding.


    Every iteration from the very first to the very last, superimposed and compressed into a single, razor-thin slice of pseudo-time. That critical mass of arcane data had reached a tipping point, and the resulting cascade failure had jolted Kyle''s slumbering mind back to vivid, screaming life.


    The incantation had shredded the fabric of his mental prison, worming through the cracks in his psyche and zeroing in on his fading essence with unerring purpose. A lifeline cast into the churning abyss.


    Kyle lifted his head, staring down the coruscating brilliance.


    His lips parted, ancient syllables spilling forth.


    And oh, how reality rippled and flexed.


    Imagine a mirror-smooth pond, the Platonic ideal of undisturbed serenity. Now imagine a stone of perfect mathematical precision slicing through the glassy surface like a falling star.


    The effect was much the same.


    The pillar of light convulsed, twisting in on itself like a living thing caught in the throes of metamorphosis. Unbound particles of pure luminance spiraled inward, coalescing into a singularity of searing, eye-watering intensity.


    A thunderclap shook the aetheric plane, a wall of sound and fury threatening to unravel Kyle''s very existence.


    The maelstrom of light collapsed in on itself, imploding into a sphere no larger than a clenched fist.


    Slowly, torturously, impossible shapes and dizzying fractals resolved into something approaching cogency. A triangle. Lambent lines of brilliant cerulean energy, razor-straight and unyielding, forming a flawless equilateral configuration.


    But there, at the final vertex, the glyph remained open. Incomplete. A hairline fracture marring the metaphorical web of reality.


    The instant the symbol blazed to life, a shockwave rippled out from the point of manifestation, rattling Kyle to his component atoms. The pulse of its existence disturbed the intangible film stretching across the surface of the void, a multidimensional drumhead resonating to the beat of an eldritch symphony only the initiated could perceive.


    In its wake, it left¡­ something. A sense of presence. Of unfathomable potential straining at the seams of creation.


    Change hung heavy in the air, an almost subliminal charge that raised the hairs on the nape of Kyle''s neck.


    The recycled ether practically sizzled with promise. Petrichor and ozone, the crisp bite of a sky just cleaved by lightning.


    He couldn''t have named the impulses bombarding his occipital lobe, but he understood the truth of them in his bones.


    Nothing would ever be the same.


    The shift was at once subtle and foundation-shaking. In deciphering the glyph - that deceptively simple geometric figure that somehow encompassed the intrinsic essence of hydrokinesis - he''d severed the shackles binding his mind to the mundane coil.


    Not an awakening, but a reawakening. A long-overdue homecoming.


    His spirit danced with newfound lightness, reveling in the impossible clarity of pure, unadulterated insight. Colors sang, sounds caressed, and the topology of his psyche stood out in stark relief against the mirrored surface of the un-void.


    For the first time, Kyle experienced the incandescent thrill of being wholly, gloriously ALIVE.


    "Incredible¡­"


    The AI''s breathless interjection shattered his reverie.


    "Huh. Forgot you were still lurking around in there." Kyle couldn''t quite filter the surprise from his tone.


    A flicker of fond exasperation from the digital passenger. "You''re welcome, genius. What, you think you retaught yourself to think through sheer stubborn ignorance? If I hadn''t been drilling that incantation into your thick skull, you''d be starring in ''Diary of a Wimpy Vegetable'' right about now."


    Kyle barked a laugh. "Guess I owe you one, Skynet. Nice assist."


    His gaze tracked back to the arcane glyph.


    Triangles. The fundamental building blocks of geometry. And this one was dazzlingly straightforward - crisp lines and precise angles, as easy to parse as the alphabet.


    But that minuscule imperfection¡­


    It needled him. Taunted him. How could something so ostensibly simple, so tantalizingly close to sublime symmetry, incorporate such a maddening flaw?


    Focus.


    Theories later. Ass-saving escape plan now.


    Rudimentary pattern recognition sketched the broad strokes for him. The glyph was a direct product of Annie''s hydromancy. Ergo, that innocuous little squiggle over there was tied to the element of water.


    Water.


    He could FEEL the connection, ephemeral hints of deeper meaning plucking at his frontal lobe. But the hazy intuition remained stubbornly amorphous, refusing to coalescence into anything concrete.


    Too many unknowns. Too many variables he couldn''t account for. He needed a starting point. Some frame of reference to begin slotting the jigsaw pieces into a recognizable picture.


    "What IS this place, really?"


    "We''re inside a metaphysical representation of your psyche. A self-contained pocket dimension, if you want to get technical about it. Everything you see here is a projection of your mental landscape."


    The AI''s tone took on a professorial slant.


    "Average Joe''s headspace is locked up tighter than a drum - completely inaccessible to the conscious mind. Poor bastards get lost in here, they''re pretty much doomed to an eternity of solipsistic navel-gazing. Game over."


    A shudder rippled through Kyle''s soul-flesh.


    God. He''d come so close to sharing that fate.


    "Lucky for you, ol'' Annie''s magic words did a number on your psychic circuitry. Punched your ticket to the big leagues," the AI continued, its nonchalance a stark counterpoint to the gravity of the revelation. "Congratulations! You''re now a card-carrying member of the ''I do believe in spooks'' club."


    Well, then.


    Shouldn''t he be feeling¡­ something? Astonishment? Elation? Existential dread? Yet his mind flatly refused to supply anything beyond a sort of Zen-like acceptance.


    Accidental enlightenment. Sure. Why the hell not? Par for the course, really.


    At this point, he''d swallow his own tongue if he DIDN''T stumble ass-backwards into some occult snafu every other day.


    That was just life in Bizarro World for you.


    Still, he couldn''t deny the burgeoning sense of giddy anticipation fizzing through his veins. The tantalizing promise of power thrumming just beneath his skin.


    Mage.


    The word alone conjured a kaleidoscope of fractured pop culture detritus. Merlin. Gandalf. Harry Dresden. Doctor Strange.


    But those were fiction. Pretty lies and fairy tales. What did it REALLY mean, in this funhouse mirror version of reality? Where did HE fall on the grand cosmic pecking order?


    What could he DO?


    A frustrated growl clawed its way out of his throat.


    Questions. Always more goddamn questions.


    "As much as I hate to derail this riveting bout of magical 20 Questions, maybe - just maybe - we should refocus on the part where you''re still trussed up like a Christmas ham in a murder dungeon." The AI, as if sensing his mounting agitation, interjected with a verbal splash of cold water. "Call me crazy, but ensuring your continued status among the living MIGHT just take priority over pondering the secrets of the universe."


    Kyle pinched the bridge of his nose, the phantom sensation of a tension headache sparking behind his eyes.


    Right. Michelle. Annie. The imminent threat of a VERY permanent dirt nap.


    Epiphany or no epiphany, the clock was still ticking on his expiration date.


    He needed to compartmentalize. To prioritize.


    The mysteries of magic could wait. Ensuring he''d live long enough to unravel them, however¡­


    Had to keep his eyes on the prize.


    Freshly motivated, Kyle cast his mind back to the physical plane.


    The transition was¡­ disorienting. Like an ice pick to the cerebellum.


    Stygian gloom pressed in on all sides, the thin rind of moonlight filtering through the dense canopy offering meager relief. His battered corpus sang a symphony of dull throbs and sharp aches, a percussive backbeat to Michelle and Annie''s hushed argument.


    The scene was painfully familiar. Trudging along on rubbery legs, the rope steadily flensing the skin from his wrists, the Reaper''s breath prickling the fine hairs on the nape of his neck¡­


    "While you were busy spelunking through your own gray matter, you missed a couple important plot developments out here in the really real world," the AI supplied unprompted. "Here''s the bullet: the cavalry''s about to make an appearance. And not the ''hold my beer and watch this'' streaking-across-the-quad variety."


    Frowning, Kyle swept his gaze over the clearing, momentarily disoriented by the transition from metaphor to meat.


    Sure enough, the gruesome twosome had called a halt to their little nature hike from hell. They hovered at the edge of the treeline, the tense set of their shoulders and clipped exchanges setting off all sorts of alarm bells in Kyle''s head.


    "It''s over. He''s dead weight. We need to cut our losses." Annie''s words spilled out in a panicky rush, the first hairline fractures showing in her sadistic mean girl veneer.


    "Failure is not an option," Michelle growled, low and dangerous as a mother hellcat protecting her young. "The package is non-negotiable. That vault WILL be cracked."


    "We''re running out of ti--"


    Kyle tuned out their bickering, a cold sweat breaking out at his hairline.


    What in the Sam Hill had the Bobbsey Twins'' bloomers in a twist?


    "You really need me to spell it out for you, Sherlock? The Girl Scouts are circling the wagons. Turns out toting around your comatose keister is hell on the old getaway hustle. Performance anxiety''s a bitch when you''re trying to beat feet."


    The AI helpfully untangled the subtext, its incorporeal voice dripping with fatalistic mirth.


    Crap on a cracker.


    Of all the times for the Lither clan to get their collective excrement together¡­


    His heart began to jackhammer in his chest, fight-or-flight kicking into high gear.


    The eleventh hour. Moment of truth time.


    When the dust settled, he''d either be breathing free air or getting fitted for a pine overcoat. And the next few ticks of the clock would tell the tale.


    "Friendly tip, Hoss? Tweedledee and Tweedledum are way too busy with their own personal reenactment of ''Mean Girls'' to spare much thought for little ol'' you. This is your window. Your shot. Get that Houdini-shaped ass of yours in gear and MOVE."


    Much as it galled him to admit it, the computerized killjoy had a point.


    He swallowed hard, Adam''s apple bobbing against his abused trachea. "So, Sysco, any brilliant insights you''d care to share re: my continued survival?"


    Silence.


    Then, a whir of servos. A crackle of static.


    "One sec, let me run the numbers. Don''t go anywhere."


    The pounding at Kyle''s temples spiked in sync with a sudden uptick in CPU activity. Fans kicked into high gear. Heatsinks throbbed like jet engines.


    Something that felt uncomfortably close to hope kindled in his chest.


    Holy motherboard.


    Was the AI actually about to pull a miracle out of its digital fundament?


    His technologically-induced optimism lasted all of three seconds before reality quite literally smacked him in the face.


    A translucent screen snapped into existence an inch from the tip of his nose, pale blue and deceptively delicate. Flickering. Stuttering.


    404

 Chapter 5: Binding Spell

    "Annie, we can''t afford to let this chance slip away."


    The heated back-and-forth continued, but Michelle appeared to be winning the argument.


    "But¡­ what other choice do we have?" Annie''s shoulders slumped in defeat.


    Michelle was silent for a moment before approaching her companion, her voice low and urgent. "There''s one last card we can play. And it all hinges on you."


    That caught Kyle''s attention.


    He was desperate for any scrap of hope, any sign that they could still shake the Lither clan''s pursuit.


    "The Lithers have no idea what our true goal is, and they don''t know our exact numbers," Michelle pressed, her tone persuasive. "You could lead them on a wild goose chase without breaking a sweat. They''ll assume the hostage is with you. All you need to do is head south at full speed - they won''t be able to keep up."


    Annie hesitated, uncertainty flickering across her features. "You want me to be the decoy?"


    Michelle nodded, gesturing to Kyle''s prone form. "I''ll stay behind with our guest. Once you''ve drawn them away, I''ll escort him to the vault. I''ll secure what we came for, and then we''ll rendezvous at the usual spot."


    She paused, her expression fierce and resolute. "I give you my word, Annie. I''ll be there waiting for you, no matter what."


    "¡­"


    Annie fell silent, clearly troubled by Michelle''s proposition.


    It wasn''t exactly rocket science to figure out Michelle''s angle here. She was sacrificing a pawn to protect the queen.


    Dressing it up as a clever distraction, a ploy to misdirect the enemy, was just putting a bow on a turd. Strip away the fancy verbiage, and it was obvious Michelle was setting Annie up to be the fall guy. For the plan to work, Annie would have to let the Lithers get close. Dangerously, recklessly close - close enough to make a clean getaway a serious long shot.


    "Damn. And here I thought they were besties ''til the end." The AI''s voice dripped with sarcasm. "Guess blood''s thicker than water, but not quite as thick as a big ol'' pile of shiny loot."


    Kyle''s stomach clenched, a chill racing up his spine.


    "So Michelle was always planning to throw her under the bus?"


    The AI managed to convey an impressive amount of derision for a bunch of ones and zeroes.


    "C''mon, Sherlock, crack the code. Little Miss Machivelli over there has been pulling the strings from minute one. You really think she just ''forgot'' Annie went all stabby on poor Sally? Puh-lease. Bet you dollars to doughnuts she''s had this little plot twist locked and loaded from the jump. No way she''s splitting the big score after the final fade to black."


    Well, hell.


    Kyle grimaced, the pieces snapping together with painful clarity.


    He''d rolled the dice, tried to bluff his way into a better position. Even managed to pull one over on Michelle, or so he''d thought at the time. Outsmarted at outsmarting. A real Pyrrhic victory, that.


    His stall tactics, his frantic bid to buy time and wiggle out of the noose - that had all been for his benefit. But Michelle¡­


    Michelle had her eyes on a different prize.


    The longer she had to drag his uncooperative carcass around, the bigger the liability he became. Why waste time and energy trying to beat the vault''s location out of him when she could just cut him loose and hightail it to the prize? Easier to take a strategic loss, toss him a bone in the form of a smug little ''gotcha'' moment if it meant she could drop the dead weight holding her back.


    The realization hit Kyle like a sock full of lye-cured stupid.


    He never should''ve tried to play clever. Trying to pull one over on Michelle¡­ yeah, that was a real galaxy brain move there, Copernicus.


    If he''d just clammed up, stuck to the script¡­ sure, he''d be in for a world of hurt. Those two psychos would be taking turns working him over like a speed bag, getting real creative with their Enhanced Interrogation Techniques¡­


    But as riled up as Michelle was over this treasure business, no way would she risk damaging the goods too badly. She needed him in good enough shape to hold up his end of the bargain.


    A battle of wills, his stubbornness against her ticking clock. Every wasted second, every emergency relocation to keep one step ahead of the Lither hounds baying for their blood - all of it would be grist for his mill. He could''ve worn her down, forced an opening through sheer bullheaded spite.


    When you got right down to the nuts and bolts of the thing, she was the one with her giblets in a vice, not him.


    "Frog-boiling sonofabitch. Can''t believe I fell for my own damn con." Kyle could''ve laughed if it didn''t make him want to gargle paint thinner.


    "Swing and a miss, Slugger. But hey, chin up." The AI''s attempts at a pep talk needed some serious recalibration. "Sure, Stabitha the Teenage Witch over there gave your cheap suit a new ventilation system, but look on the bright side - at least you''re not still playing ''Saw: The Home Game'' in Gitmo''s rumpus room. Gotta count those blessings, my dude."


    Kyle huffed out a sigh, throwing in the towel on the whole self-recrimination schtick.


    No point crying over spilt brain matter. Wasn''t like he could hop in the DeLorean, punch it to eighty-eight, and unfuck that particular pooch.


    All he could do was play the crappy hand he''d dealt himself.


    The clock was ticking, and Kyle was clean outta timeouts.


    "Riddle me this, Skynet: what if I get my Solid Snake on while the Murder Twins are busy with their little soap opera interlude? Just, y''know, slither off into the bushes while they''re verbally ripping out each others'' naughty bits. I figure that''s gotta be worth something, odds wise." Kyle mused, the hamster wheel in his head spinning up to a truly ill-advised velocity.Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.


    The AI didn''t dignify that with an immediate response. Kyle could practically feel the force of its incredulity beaming through his frontal lobe like a psychic laser pointer.


    "Wow. Gotta be honest, chief, not loving your chances there. I get that you''re hard up for a miracle, but I sincerely doubt the Cagney and Lacey of the Occult are just gonna plumb forget you exist. Those two are wound tighter than an eight-day clock - you so much as twitch funny and they''ll pounce faster than a diabetic at a Krispy Kreme."


    I mean, yeah, when you put it like that¡­


    Kyle''s shoulders sagged. It was a stupid plan. Suicidally stupid. There were quicker, cleaner ways to off himself, most of them involving a lot less physical agony on the way out.


    But hey, go big or go home, right?


    "Message received, Short Circuit. You got any bright ideas rattling around up there in the old Turing test, or is snarky color commentary the best that top-shelf neural net can muster?"


    "¡­"


    "Yeah, that''s what I thought."


    Kyle pinched the bridge of his nose, searching for a hidden wellspring of intestinal fortitude he was fairly certain he''d never actually possessed in the first place.


    When you hit rock bottom, the only way out was through.


    God, he was really gonna do this. Just¡­ Leeroy Jenkins headfirst into the wood chipper and pray for a critical fail on the splash damage.


    That''s our boy - dumb as a bag of wet hair from the word ''go.''


    Squaring his shoulders (metaphorically speaking - the physical reality was a good deal less confident), Kyle tuned back in to the tense little scene playing out before him.


    Time to see just how deep this rabbit hole went.


    However, his plan fell through.


    Annie remained silent, her hesitation palpable. Michelle, sensing the urgency of the situation, stepped forward and clasped Annie''s hands in her own, once again invoking the strength of their bond.


    "Annie, I''ve always trusted you. Don''t you think it''s time for you to trust me?"


    With those simple words, quiet sobs escaped from beneath Annie''s hood.


    "Yes, I trust you!" she choked out.


    Kyle''s worldview crumbled once more, leaving him adrift.


    They¡­ weren''t going to fight¡­?


    "Michelle, under the third tree at our usual spot, I buried everything I hold dear. Remember to dig it up." Annie''s voice quavered with barely-suppressed tears as she began to ramble, as if imparting her final wishes. "You have to survive, no matter what. Carry on our dream. I''ll always be with you¡­"


    The two embraced, their bodies wracked with shared grief.


    Kyle was at a loss.


    "She''s not an idiot. She clearly sees through Michelle''s ploy to use her as a distraction. But even knowing she''s marching to her doom, she doesn''t breathe a word of protest. Why?"


    It defied all logic.


    The AI, ever the peanut gallery, chimed in with a voice like a soap opera-addicted housewife dabbing at misty eyes.


    "Ah, sisterly love. Ain''t it grand?"


    With time working against them, the tearful farewell was mercifully brief. After a scant few seconds of waterworks, the two separated. Clasping hands one final time, eyes locked in a meaningful gaze, Annie nodded resolutely before turning on her heel.


    Her robed silhouette receded into the darkened treeline, retracing their steps.


    She was off to be the sacrificial lamb.


    Kyle watched Annie''s form dwindle into the distance, still struggling to process this turn of events.


    His grand scheme hinged on the two femme fatales coming to verbal blows, giving him a window to slip the noose and make a break for it. But the joke was on him - the gruesome twosome had thrown him a curve ball.


    Annie, marching to her death with a smile on her face and a song in her heart.


    What in the world was going through that girl''s head?


    Clearly, he had a lot to learn about this strange new reality.


    But before Kyle could fully wrap his mind around this latest development, Michelle sprang into action.


    She thrust out a hand, aiming squarely at Kyle''s prone form. The night breeze caught her billowing robes, sending them fluttering around her like dark wings.


    An incantation, denser and more complex than any he''d heard thus far, slithered into his ears.


    Before he could react, Kyle felt the surge of an immense, unknowable force enveloping him from all sides. It constricted around him like a python, rendering him utterly immobile.


    Michelle crossed the gap between them in three long strides. Fisting a hand in the collar of his shirt, she proceeded to drag him bodily towards the nearest sizeable tree.


    Kyle''s mind reeled. What fresh hell was this?


    Paralyzed by the sorcerous restraints, he was helpless to resist as Michelle hauled him up the tree with startling ease. In a matter of moments, he found himself bound to the highest boughs, secured by glowing coils of eldritch energy.


    With her prisoner trussed up, Michelle settled herself on a nearby branch, rearranging the foliage to conceal them both from prying eyes.


    She''d wait out the Lither pursuit from this vantage point.


    And Kyle, poor, doomed Kyle, was stuck right alongside her. Imprisoned. Helpless. The focus of her hawklike scrutiny.


    So much for his half-baked escape plan.


    "Damn, she''s freakishly strong for a chick." The AI piped up, startling Kyle out of his black reverie. "Starting to wonder if she''s packing a little something extra under the hood, if you catch my drift. My bad for suggesting you try to seduce her, muchacho. That''s on me."


    "¡­"


    As much as it pained him to admit it, the AI had a point. Michelle''s display of raw physical prowess beggared belief.


    Kyle was no body builder, but he was still a grown man. A hundred and change pounds of dead weight, give or take. But Michelle had manhandled him like a sack of feathers, scaling the tree one-handed with the fluid grace of a predator.


    It was, in a word, humbling.


    Kyle could only gape in mute astonishment.


    This world¡­ it was full of wonders. Terrifying, pants-soilingly deadly wonders.


    "Don''t panic. The binding magic will wear off on its own after a while." Michelle spared him a glance, her voice almost bored. "Sir Lither, I''m simply hoping for a bit of cooperation moving forward. It would be in everyone''s best interest if you refrained from causing me any more trouble. Understood?"


    Kyle opened his mouth, a few choice words dancing on the tip of his tongue¡­ only to discover that whatever spell Michelle had hit him with had paralyzed more than just his limbs.


    Well, then. Guess it was ''glower impotently'' o''clock.


    He fixed Michelle with his best approximation of a menacing glare, which likely came off about as intimidating as a cranky toddler. A+ for effort though.


    "Welp, you''re screwed," the AI chimed in with its signature tact and grace. "Trussed up like a turkey with a front row seat to your own murder. No chance of escape, no cavalry riding to the rescue. Gonna have to chalk this one up as a ''definite kill,'' boss."


    It was right.


    Kyle felt a pang of resignation settle in his chest like a lead weight. Michelle had played her hand masterfully. Sacrificing Annie to buy herself a clear shot at the prize, cutting off any chance he had of turning the tables.


    No avenue of escape, no hope of rescue, no trump card up his sleeve.


    "A pity, really," the AI mused, affecting a tone of overwrought sorrow. "To think, a marvel of engineering such as myself, snuffed out alongside you in this backwater deathtrap. Cut down in my prime. And here I thought I was destined for greatness."


    It was really hamming it up, laying the melodrama on thick. Kyle felt his skin prickle with irritation.


    "Oh, spare me the sob story, you glorified abacus." Kyle cut off its whining. "Who said anything about throwing in the towel?"


    The AI''s pity party ground to an abrupt halt. Kyle could practically feel its disdain wafting out of his frontal lobe like a bad smell.


    "I mean, points for optimism, chief. You''ll forgive me if I don''t feel like hopping aboard the ''power of positive thinking'' express to our imminent demise. Once burned, twice shy and all that."


    But Kyle was undeterred.


    "See, that''s just it. Michelle may have blocked off my avenues of escape, but in doing so, she opened up a window of opportunity."


    "A window, you say? Fascinating." The AI could''ve etched glass with the razor edge of its sarcasm. "And where, pray tell, might we find this miraculous portal to freedom? Do enlighten me."


    Kyle grinned. An honest-to-goodness, ear-to-ear Cheshire Cat grin.


    "The incantation from earlier. I assume you were listening in?"


    The AI didn''t respond, which was as good as a confirmation in Kyle''s book.


    "The water sphere trick was a neat party favor, but this paralysis whammy¡­ now that''s the real moneymaker. Our little digital genie just scored us a shiny new ace in the hole, and our resident necromancer is none the wiser."


    He shot a sidelong glance at Michelle, still blissfully unaware of the wheels turning behind his eyes. The night breeze ruffled the dark curtain of her hair, as gentle as a lover''s caress before the knife finds your back.


    "The hunter and the hunted¡­ an age-old dynamic. A story as old as time." Kyle mused, half to himself, half to his cerebral stowaway. "What do you say we switch things up?"


    The AI didn''t respond immediately. In the ensuing silence, Kyle fancied he could almost hear the electric hum of its processors kicking into overdrive.


    Then, with the mournful resignation of a condemned man taking his final steps to the gallows, it said:


    "So¡­ about that incantation. Mind putting it on repeat for me?"

 Chapter 6: The Cleanser

    Life is full of illusions. Your phone is vibrating in your pocket, that cute barista is into you, and you can turn the tables on your captor.


    Kyle found himself firmly in the grip of that third illusion.


    Trusting in the AI''s ability to put the incantation on loop, he focused all his mental energy on the words, intent on mastering the binding spell and using it to gain the upper hand on Michelle. And the AI didn''t let him down, dutifully repeating the mystical phrase ad nauseum.


    No, the one who let Kyle down was Kyle.


    No matter how many times the AI looped the chant, no matter how intently Kyle concentrated, he simply could not wrap his mind around the intricacies of the spell.


    By focusing his thoughts inward, he found himself back in that strange mindscape. Everything was just as he''d left it - an endless expanse of inky black nothing, the luminous blue triangle thrumming with eldritch power. The AI''s voice echoed through the space, the incantation repeating over and over, just as it had with the water sphere.


    But nothing happened.


    It was like trying to start a fire with damp kindling and a plastic spoon. No matter how much he scraped and sparked, his efforts fizzled.


    "That metaphor''s a bit of a reach," the AI piped up, abruptly cutting off the playback. "This is less ''the wood is too wet to burn'' and more ''you''re rubbing two bricks together and calling it a bonfire.'' You''re not even working with the right elements here, chief."


    Kyle hadn''t exactly been angling for a critique, but something in the AI''s tone gave him pause.


    "Okay, I''ll bite. What''s your take on this mess?"


    If an incorporeal string of code could puff up with self-importance, this one was doing a bang-up job of it. It affected a pretentious throat-clearing noise, then slipped into its best impression of a lecturing professor.


    "The mindscape is your mental garage. The incantation is your toolbox. That first spell you fumbled into was like prying open the lock with a crowbar. Congrats, you''re in. But that little breaking and entering trick won''t fly twice. You can''t just grab any old tool off the rack and expect it to fit the job. Square peg, round hole, you scan?"


    "¡­so what I''m hearing is that I''m back to square one. Fantastic."


    "Hey, don''t shoot the messenger, buddy. I''m just calling it like I see it."


    Kyle shook his head, equal parts frustration and begrudging acceptance.


    As much as he hated to admit it, the AI had a point. Trying to strong-arm his way into arcane mastery was a fool''s errand. He''d have better luck squeezing water from a stone.


    But if not through brute force, then how?


    The downside to being an accidental mage was becoming painfully clear. He''d stumbled backwards into power, but he had no idea how to actually use it. He was flying blind, feeling his way forward and hoping he didn''t face-plant into a wall.


    Kyle seethed with impotent frustration. He was half-tempted to swallow his pride and beg Michelle for a crash course in Spellcasting 101.


    "Welp, looks like that binding spell was a bust. Bummer." The AI didn''t even try to hide its glee at being freed from its one-phrase purgatory.


    "You do realize that if I can''t pull this off, Michelle is going to end me, right? And when I bite the big one, you''re coming along for the ride." Kyle felt the need to remind his digital tagalong of their shared fate.


    That certainly killed the AI''s buzz.


    With the incantation gambit well and truly tanked, Kyle decided to cut his losses and try a different angle.


    This mindscape, this mental projection of his inner world, was the wellspring of his power. If he had any hope of turning this situation around, the key had to be hidden somewhere in the oppressive gloom.


    Of course, staring slack-jawed at the void wasn''t going to net him any earth-shattering epiphanies. Kyle pondered for a moment, then crossed to the floating triangle.


    He thrust out a hand, aiming his palm at the sigil, and intoned the words of the water sphere incantation.


    The effect was instantaneous. The triangle shivered as if struck by an unseen tuning fork, emitting a single crystalline note. The sound seemed to ripple through the mindscape, a wave of force both subtle and profound.


    Kyle gasped, eyes flaring wide.


    He could feel it, a strange resonance humming through his body like an electric current. A not-quite-pins-and-needles sensation, equal parts unsettling and exhilarating.


    When he came back to himself, a shimmering orb of water hovered above his outstretched hand.


    "Well would you look at that! A genuine, bona fide water balloon." The AI slathered on the sarcasm like cheap body spray. "So what''s the plan, kemosabe? You gonna defeat the dastardly Michelle with the power of wet willies and surprise super soakers?"


    Kyle paid the snide comments no mind.


    In the instant the water sphere formed, the fabric of the mindscape seemed to shift, snapping into focus like a dislocated joint popping back into place. It was as if a veil had been ripped away, a sixth sense he''d never known he possessed dragging the hidden things into the light. Overwhelming, staggering, transcendent¡­


    The moment passed in a hummingbird''s heartbeat, but the afterimage seared itself into his mind''s eye.


    The mindscape practically shimmered with arcane potential, the air thick and heady with it.


    In its passive state, this energy - this power - suffused the space like a fine mist, static and directionless. But the instant Kyle spoke the words of power, the triangle flared to life, acting as a metaphysical magnet. The dormant energy leapt to obey, swirling into the center of the glyph, coalescing, transmuting¡­


    And from that critical mass of intent and invocation, the water sphere bloomed.


    The triangle was a conduit, the incantation a lure, the finished spell a marvel of metaphysical engineering, the end result of will and raw energy in perfect concert.


    For the briefest of moments, Kyle glimpsed the inner workings of magic, that tantalizing slice of the cosmic machinery.


    But his elation barely had time to register before dread came crashing down like a bucket of ice water.


    Because he could sense the fundamental nature of this power, the invisible leylines thrumming through the air.


    That subtle tang of petrichor, that thrum of primal, burgeoning life¡­ it was the element of water, pure and undiluted.


    And when he repeated the binding incantation, directing all his focus towards the triangle, he felt the energy recoil from his ham-fisted overtures, actively resisting his call.


    It was painfully clear that water magic and binding magic were not cut from the same metaphysical cloth.


    Unwilling to throw in the towel, Kyle cast his mind wide, desperate to catch even the barest flicker of compatible energy. But no matter how far he reached, water was the only note in this one-song symphony.


    The power was playful, capricious, dancing just out of reach. It deigned to cooperate, but only just, and only on its own terms. To Kyle''s immense frustration, his mastery of this mercurial force was tenuous at best.


    "Ain''t that a kick in the pants," the AI grumbled. "Of all the elements in all the worlds, you get saddled with the one that''s only good for party tricks and ruining a good pair of slacks. Congrats, Aquaman. Your superpower is being a human sprinkler system."


    As much as he hated to concede the point, Kyle couldn''t argue with the AI''s assessment.


    The water sphere was a cool visual, but it didn''t exactly scream ''tactical advantage.'' Certainly not against the likes of Michelle.


    His grand plan to turn the tables had fizzled out before it could even get off the ground. So much for that brief, shining moment where he''d felt like the spider instead of the fly. This world seemed to take perverse pleasure in chewing up his hopes and spitting them out.


    Dead end after dead end, every path forward crumbling to dust beneath his feet¡­


    Kyle opened his eyes, the cloying dark of the mindscape giving way to the bone-deep shadows of the forest.


    The wind whispered through the leaves, the boughs creaking a mournful counterpoint. Michelle perched on an adjacent branch, hooded and motionless as a living gargoyle. Between the distance and the darkness, Kyle couldn''t make out her expression beneath the concealing cowl.Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.


    Come to think of it, he hadn''t managed to get a clear look at her face once since this whole mad affair began. She was an enigma, a cipher, the quintessential wicked sorceress - a bottomless font of Machiavellian schemes and sinister designs.


    He glared at her shrouded form as if he could pierce the ethereal barriers through sheer force of desperation, searching in vain for some chink in her eldritch armor.


    "Oh ho! Is that the sweet stink of desperation I detect?" The AI butted in with malicious glee, its digital voice dripping with fake concern. "Finally ready to deploy the nuclear option, eh? The old ''if you can''t beat ''em, seduce ''em'' gambit? A bold strategy, Cotton. Let''s see if it pays off!"


    Kyle paid the AI no mind.


    He had no intention of taking its asinine advice. Even if he could bring himself to stoop so low, there was no guarantee Michelle would take the bait. His adventures in this brave new world had made one thing abundantly clear - he was no harem protagonist, blessed with an irresistible charm that sent women swooning into his arms.


    No, he had a different plan. A gambit.


    He was going to have a little chat with Michelle.


    Or rather, he was going to attempt to negotiate. Just like when he''d first crossed over, he''d use the scant few bargaining chips at his disposal to cut a deal, to convince Michelle to let him live.


    It was a long shot, sure, but what other choice did he have? Even if it was a bad idea, it wasn''t like he had much left to lose. Rock, meet bottom.


    Kyle was nothing if not tenacious.


    Steeling himself, he cleared his throat and spoke.


    "Miss Michelle, you''re in a very precarious position right now."


    Rule number one of negotiation: establish dominance, project confidence, sell the danger.


    Of course, he knew it would take more than a vague proclamation to rattle Michelle''s cage. That was just his opening salvo.


    ***


    In Kyle''s mind, the conversation would go a little something like this:


    "Miss Michelle, you''re in a very precarious position right now."


    Michelle, her voice dripping with disdain: "And what, pray tell, is that supposed to mean?"


    Kyle, unleashing his most sinister chuckle: "You thought sacrificing Annie would buy you time, but unfortunately for you, my family already knows your true objective. They''re lying in wait at the vault, ready to spring the trap the moment you show your face."


    Michelle, her composure shattering: "Impossible! How could they have found out?"


    Kyle, howling with laughter: "Hahaha, you fool! I left a trail of clues along our route, breadcrumbs for my family to follow. Didn''t see that coming, did you? Face it, Michelle - in the battle of wits, you''re hopelessly outclassed!"


    Michelle, stricken, all the color draining from her face: "What do I do, what do I do? Please, you have to help me, I''ll do anything you say!"


    And then Kyle would have her right where he wanted her. He''d offer her a deal - play nice, escort him back to his family, and he''d put in a good word, maybe even help her get her hands on that oh-so-precious vault.


    She''d be putty in his hands, too grateful for his mercy to even consider double-crossing him. And once he was free and clear, well¡­ a promise made under duress hardly counted as binding, now did it?


    Michelle would be left with nothing, and he''d waltz away scot-free.


    It was foolproof! Bulletproof! A masterstroke of manipulation!


    Kyle stroked his chin, preening at his own unparalleled genius.


    But of course, as anyone with two brain cells to rub together could''ve predicted, things didn''t quite go according to plan.


    Michelle ignored him entirely.


    Kyle refused to let himself panic. Setbacks were to be expected. The road to victory was paved with potholes. He couldn''t let one little speedbump derail his grand scheme.


    He tried again, undeterred.


    "I''m not being hyperbolic, you know. Your position is precarious, whether you choose to believe it or not."


    Finally, Michelle deigned to respond.


    "I believe you. You''re absolutely right."


    Kyle''s words died in his throat.


    Something about this didn''t feel quite right.


    Michelle''s tone was placid, nonchalant. "You left a trail of breadcrumbs along our route, clues for your family to follow. Unfortunately for me, they''ve discovered my true aim - the vault. They''re lying in wait, ready to spring the trap the moment I show my face."


    "¡­"


    Kyle was starting to feel like he''d walked into the wrong play.


    The AI chimed in, its incorporeal voice dripping with secondhand embarrassment. "Oof. Gotta say, I really hate it when they don''t stick to the script like this. How''s a guy supposed to deliver his lines when his scene partner keeps stealing them?"


    Kyle had never empathized with the desire to be swallowed up by a hole in the ground more. The urge to simply cease to exist had never been stronger.


    Even without being able to see Michelle''s face, he could FEEL the smug condescension radiating off her in waves. He''d thought perhaps she hadn''t noticed his secret messages, that he still had an ace up his sleeve, but¡­


    Well. In for a penny, in for a pound.


    "Uh. Well. Even if you did notice my signals, that doesn''t necessarily mean you, uh. Cleaned up after me."


    "Oh, I didn''t," Michelle confirmed breezily. "Your little trail of breadcrumbs is still intact. Pristine, even."


    Now Kyle was REALLY thrown for a loop.


    If she hadn''t destroyed the evidence, then the Lithers would have no trouble sniffing out her plan. They''d be camped out in front of that vault, just waiting to pounce. It was the same outcome Kyle had been gunning for, just without the part where he got to act like a smug, gloating mastermind.


    So then why? Why was Michelle going out of her way to sabotage herself?


    Bewildered, he pressed on.


    "Why? Surely you realize this is only going to make things harder for you. What''s your angle here?"


    Michelle let out a sharp bark of laughter.


    But before she could explain herself, the moment shattered.


    Quick as a flash, she produced a dagger from the billowing folds of her robe, pressing the razor edge against Kyle''s throat hard enough to dimple the skin.


    "Not a sound, or I''ll paint the trees red with your blood," she hissed.


    The blade was so cold it burned, a line of ice kissing his jugular. Kyle''s mouth went dry, his blood turning to slush in his veins.


    Crap on a stick! What was this psycho doing?


    One twitch, one spasm, one errant breath, and he''d be re-enacting that elevator scene from ''The Shining.'' And not in a fun, Halloween party way.


    Kyle was suddenly, acutely aware of the sweat gathering at his hairline, beading his brow.


    But even with the looming specter of death hovering over him like a shroud, he fought to steady his thundering pulse. To THINK.


    For all her violent lunacy, Michelle still needed him alive. His continued existence was the linchpin of her scheme. She wouldn''t snuff him out on a whim.


    If she wanted him silent, then something had to have triggered her psycho switch. Kyle''s best bet was to do as he was told - clam up, wait it out, keep his neck in one piece.


    As if to punctuate that thought, the sound of approaching hoofbeats shattered the forest''s tranquility.


    Kyle strained his eyes, peering into the gloom.


    From the shadows emerged a phalanx of knights, their every movement crackling with power and purpose.


    At a glance, Kyle counted a little over a dozen riders. They moved in perfect synchronicity, their formation so crisp and uniform, it could''ve been ripped from the pages of a geometry textbook. Each man was clad from head to toe in ornate armor, the intricate etchings and engravings a testament to the skill of their craftsmanship.


    But most shockingly of all, the armor GLOWED, the metal thrumming with an ethereal golden light that pierced the forest''s black heart like a flaming sword. Wreathed in this hallowed radiance, the knights seemed more akin to avenging angels than mortal men, divine judgment personified.


    A dozen riders, yet their mere presence conjured the illusion of a thousand.


    The very instant the knights crested the horizon, Kyle felt Michelle go rigid against him, her whole body seizing up like a corpse in full rigor.


    Questions pinballed through his mind at breakneck speed.


    Who were these glowing tin cans? What was their connection to Michelle? Did she know they''d be passing through? Was that the reason for her sudden panic? Could it be¡­ were these guys the Lithers'' goon squad, here to crash the party?


    Kyle wasn''t suicidal enough to try to flag them down for an assist. He was painfully aware of the steel kissing his jugular, a razor''s edge from opening him up like a stuck pig.


    The knights never so much as glanced in their direction, their purpose apparently fixed elsewhere. They thundered on through the brush and were swallowed by the night as swiftly as they''d emerged, there and gone between one blink and the next.


    Only once the sound of hoofbeats had faded into memory did Kyle feel Michelle sag against him, the tension bleeding from her muscles.


    A small eternity seemed to crawl by before she saw fit to remove the blade from his neck.


    Slowly, tentatively, Kyle reached up to rub at his throat. He could still feel the phantom kiss of the metal, cold as the grave.


    Just what was that woman playing at? Who were those glowing knights, really? And the question she''d so artfully dodged - why HADN''T she covered Kyle''s tracks?


    The mysteries were piling up faster than he could unravel them, the threads hopelessly tangled.


    But before he could prod Michelle for answers, she beat him to the punch.


    "Sir Lither, I apologize for my¡­ inelegance just now. I''m sure you understand - one can never be too careful." She made a show of inspecting her dagger for bloodstains before secreting it away once more. "Now, I believe I owe you an explanation vis-a-vis that little trail of breadcrumbs you were so proud of."


    Kyle waited with bated breath as she cast her gaze back the way the knights had come, her face an inscrutable mask beneath her cowl.


    "I''m afraid it''s rather a moot point. As it happens, I never had any intention of covering my tracks."


    Kyle''s mind reeled.


    "What are you saying?"


    A pause, heavy with unspoken insinuation. When Michelle spoke again, there was a smirk in her voice, cold and mocking.


    "Did you honestly believe your family would come riding to your rescue? That you''d be saved by the bell?"


    Kyle''s stomach plummeted like a stone.


    "Poor thing. You and Annie, thick as thieves¡­ and twice as gullible. There IS no rescue party. There never was. Those brave knights you pinned your hopes on? The ones ''hot on our heels?'' Nothing but a fairy tale I spun out of moonbeams and wishful thinking. The only ones tailing us¡­"


    She jerked her chin in the direction of the departed knights, every word dripping venom.


    "¡­are them."


    Kyle was struggling to wrap his mind around this revelation.


    Had the Lither clan truly forsaken him, left him to twist in the wind? Thrown him to the wolves without so much as a fare-thee-well?


    But then¡­ what about Michelle''s fabled "rescue party?" The shadow dogging their steps, hounding their every move? The phantom menace that had Annie jumping at shadows and Michelle herself constantly looking over one shoulder? Was that nothing more than smoke and mirrors?


    It beggared belief. And yet¡­


    Had he fallen for the ruse as well, swallowed Michelle''s story hook, line and sinker?


    The sheer scope of her machinations was staggering. To think, she''d had them all dancing to her tune from minute one, playing them off one another like a master conductor. Not even her own lackey was safe from her forked tongue.


    Of course Kyle, still wet behind the ears, had been taken in by her silver words. He''d been so SURE he had the upper hand, so convinced he was the spider and she the fly. But in truth, he''d been the dupe all along, every "clever" scheme playing right into her hands.


    An ordinary man would have crumbled beneath the weight of such a crushing defeat. Thrown himself upon the witch''s mercy and begged for a quick death.


    But Kyle (and the narrator) had put far too much effort into this little passion play to bow out so anti-climactically.


    "Wait. Hold on. Back up a second." Kyle''s brain was firing on all cylinders, desperately trying to salvage some scrap of advantage from this unmitigated disaster. "If there IS no rescue party, then who were those guys? The glow-in-the-dark brigade that just rolled through."


    He jabbed an accusatory finger at the space the knights had recently vacated, his eyes boring into Michelle''s shadowed face.


    Kyle had never been a particularly sharp judge of character, but even his sluggish emotional IQ could parse the subtle shift in Michelle''s demeanor as she considered her answer.


    At last, she deigned to respond, her voice curiously flat.


    "They¡­ are the Church''s ''Cleansers.''"


    "Cleansers? What is that, some kind of holy janitorial service?"


    Michelle was silent for a long moment, staring off into the middle distance as if seeing through the veil of night to some bleak vista beyond mortal ken. The forest itself seemed to hold its breath, the air gone heavy and still.


    And then, with an air of bone-deep weariness¡­ she laughed.


    A low, bitter sound, the grating scrape of a final breath rattling in a punctured lung. As if every cruel twist of fate was an especially cutting punchline, every fresh horror a morbid jest for her amusement alone.


    "Cleansers." The word dripped from her tongue like acid, scouring away the last vestiges of her black mirth.


    "They cleanse filth¡­ starting with Annie."

 Chapter 7: Annies Demise

    Annie often wondered how she would meet her end.


    Strangely enough, she never pictured it being a peaceful passing. She dreamed of being torn limb from limb, her broken body a gruesome sight, yet she felt no fear or unease. Once, she dreamed of dying quietly in a sickbed, the people holding a lovely funeral in her honor. Michelle stood silently before her grave, laying a bouquet of lilies at its base.


    Annie awoke with a start, drenched in cold sweat, unable to find rest for the remainder of the night.


    Ever since meeting Michelle, it seemed all of Annie''s dreams had come to revolve around her. Being cut to ribbons by Michelle''s blade, the two of them burning together at the Church''s stake, choking the life from Michelle with her bare hands¡­ there was even one where she and Michelle made frenzied love in a seedy little inn, though in her waking hours she''d never entertained such thoughts.


    Not until she resolved to betray Michelle.


    The seeds of betrayal had first taken root when Michelle''s trust in her began to falter, but that wasn''t the start of the rift between them. Before Sally entered the picture, Michelle had been Annie''s guiding light, her rock - a goddess in mortal form.


    Michelle could strike down any foe. Michelle could have anything she desired.


    Just like the first time Annie laid eyes on her. That fateful night at the inn, Michelle descended like an avenging angel, cleaving a patron''s head from his shoulders with a single stroke of her sword.


    The scene was seared into Annie''s mind like a brand: the headless corpse still pinning her to the bed, twitching and jerking like a marionette with its strings cut. The severed head rolling across the floor, its slack features almost comical. Blood, blood everywhere, painting the dingy sheets a vivid crimson, overwhelming even the most stubborn stench of mildew.


    God, how she''d hated that cloying reek.


    Every time she serviced a client, she''d fix her gaze on the water-stained ceiling, trying to block out the nauseating odor. No matter how repulsive the john, she could detach herself, ignore the greasy pawing and grunting rutting. But that pervasive stink of rot and decay¡­ there was no escaping it.


    It smelled just like the mattress from her childhood, the bedding forever sour with sweat and despair. A constant reminder of just how far she''d fallen.


    To flee the stench, she''d breathe through her mouth, sucking down great lungfuls of air. Some of the men mistook this for enthusiasm, redoubling their efforts, but she paid them no mind.


    Looking back, in all her five years walking the streets, the only things that stuck out were the cracked ceiling she''d lose herself in and that hateful mildewed stink that clung to her like a shroud.


    So when Michelle butchered that patron, Annie felt no horror, no revulsion. If anything, she was grateful for the coppery tang of blood drowning out the mold and damp.


    Michelle sheathed her blade and regarded Annie''s expressionless face.


    "Come with me," she said. "I''ll make you a witch."


    At the time, Annie didn''t even know what the word ''witch'' meant.


    But she nodded all the same, etching Michelle''s words into her very soul. To this day, she could recite them verbatim. That moment was frozen in time like a painting, every detail captured in perfect clarity - the drape of Michelle''s cloak, the angle of the door, the trajectory of the severed head, the pattern of stains on the walls¡­ it all might as well have happened mere seconds ago, the images as visceral and immediate as a still-beating heart ripped from a chest.


    Such was the nature of Michelle''s existence - singular, unforgettable, larger than life.


    Perhaps that was why, when Annie realized Michelle''s faith in her was wavering, her fury burned twice as hot.


    The turning point came three months into her magical training.


    Michelle returned that evening with another woman in tow, a bony slip of a thing with sharp elbows and sharper cheekbones. They arrived just as Annie was laying out supper. The stranger breezed in on Michelle''s heels, not waiting for an introduction before plopping herself down at the table like she owned the place. Bold as brass, she reached out and snatched up the lone sausage on the serving plate.


    Annie had been saving that sausage for Michelle.


    She gaped at the interloper, at her razor-thin smile and haughty demeanor. Annie was dumbstruck, unsure whether her ire was justified. She didn''t even know this brazen hussy''s name.


    The woman caught Annie''s eye, her grin widening to a smirk.


    "Name''s Sally. Charmed, I''m sure."


    Sally. What a low, common sort of name. The kind a dull-witted scrubber might settle on, three sheets to the wind and smelling of the gutter.


    But Annie bit her tongue, quashing the urge to knock the supercilious sneer off the woman''s horsey face with a well-placed slap. Instead, she cut her gaze to Michelle, a silent plea for support.


    Michelle didn''t so much as blink. She merely leveled a look at Annie, her words carrying the weight of a divine pronouncement:


    "From this day forth, she is our ally."


    Annie went cold all over, a lump of ice crystallizing in her gut.


    It was an all-too-familiar sensation.


    In that instant, she was a little girl again, lost and uncomprehending.


    When Annie was five, her mother had approached her just like this, cradling a squalling, ruddy-faced infant.


    "From this day forth," she''d declared, "he is your brother."


    The parallels were uncanny.


    Annie''s mother was the village pariah, abandoned by her husband the day Annie was born. Desperate to win back his affections, she''d sold off their few meager possessions - a scraggly plot of land, a handful of scrawny chickens - and set off to find him. Sometimes she''d be gone for three days, sometimes five, leaving Annie to subsist on the pitying charity of neighbors while she waited in their ramshackle hovel for her mother to return, each homecoming more bitter than the last.


    That fateful year, her mother vanished for ten days. She returned with a baby boy in tow - Annie''s new brother. Word had it the child was Annie''s father''s bastard, conceived with some faceless doxy, but her mother refused to speak of it. Of Annie''s father''s whereabouts, there was never any word.


    After that, her mother seemed to give up the search. She no longer set out on fruitless attempts to reclaim her feckless husband. Her only solace was the bottle, soused more often than sober. A grim specter, forever rank with cheap spirits.


    Sometimes Annie would jolt awake in the small hours to find her mother looming over her, staring down with a look utterly devoid of maternal warmth. Like Annie was something foul and shameful, a canker in need of excising.


    But oh, when her mother gazed upon Annie''s brother¡­


    Even at her most sotted, she handled the boy with a gentleness she''d never once shown her daughter. Lullabies and kisses, soft swaddling and fresh milk nicked from the neighbors'' cows¡­ all lavished on him. The way her mother looked at the child was almost indecent, her eyes fever-bright with a love that owed nothing to the bond between parent and child.


    It was all wrong. The boy wasn''t truly her mother''s son. Not by blood.


    Annie despised her brother. Resented him with every fiber of her being. But what could she do? The burden of keeping them alive fell solely on her too-thin shoulders. She scavenged mealy vegetables from untended fields. She took on every scrap of menial drudgery. She hired herself out to the neighbors from sunup to sundown, breaking her back for a few tarnished coins.


    Every cent she earned was pissed away on rotgut moonshine or frittered on her brother. The choicest morsels, sturdy new clothes¡­ all to keep a vodka-soaked grin on her mother''s blotchy face. Annie told herself she could feel her mother''s bitterness thawing by minute degrees when she sat stitching shirts for the brat. That meager approval was all the proof she had that her mother still held some scrap of affection for her.


    As the years dragged on, her mother sank deeper into the bottle, her rough edges honed to a cruel point that inevitably found its home in Annie''s yielding flesh. Desperate to earn even a crumb of regard, Annie ran herself ragged catering to her every whim.


    Until, at last, something fractured.


    Annie''s descent was the maggots seething in a bloated corpse, the inexorable conclusion to a slow, putrid rot.


    At twelve, she sold her virginity to a sweaty, pig-eyed man for a fistful of grimy coins and an hour on her back. As he grunted and shoved atop her, she fixed glassy eyes on the familiar water stains overhead, parceling out the money in her head - how much she could eke out for her brother''s meals, how she might stretch the rest to keep her mother''s spirits up. Her success filled her with a numb sort of satisfaction.The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    But when she limped home, dirty money clutched tight, the neighbors met her with devastating news.


    Her brother had drowned in the village pond.


    Annie would never forget her mother''s face when she stumbled over the threshold that night.


    Oh, the woman never breathed a word about the boy''s death, not really. She sat stony and silent atop her filthy bedding, a near-empty bottle of cheap swill dangling from one bone-thin hand. But her eyes, when they flicked to Annie¡­ oh, her eyes screamed loud enough to shake the heavens.


    The unspoken accusation hung in the air, thick as old blood: "It should have been you."


    Annie swallowed back her grief, her shame. Mutely, she approached the bed and withdrew the coin purse, heavy with her sins. She laid it within her mother''s reach.


    Her mother''s lip curled, a single cutting word slithering out to flay her to the bone.


    "Whore."


    When dawn broke, they dragged her mother''s body from the depths of the pond. Bloated and misshapen, she bore a grotesque resemblance to her ill-fated son. Gazing upon her waterlogged remains, Annie couldn''t suppress a horrid little thought - at least now, features distorted by death and the dark water''s embrace, no one could deny her mother''s bond with the boy.


    At the sparsely attended funeral, Annie wept. Great, racking sobs that felt torn from the very core of her, a lifetime of stifled anguish pouring out in a deluge. After, she was a husk, scraped hollow.


    There was nothing tethering her to this hateful village now. No reason to stay.


    So she ran. And she never looked back.


    Until she met Sally, Annie hadn''t truly understood her feelings towards her mother and brother. She''d believed she loved them, convinced herself she''d sacrificed everything for their sake. Their deaths had shattered her, driven her to flee her childhood home and wander the world lost and alone.


    But the instant she laid eyes on Sally, the truth hit her like a thunderbolt - she hated her brother. Loathed him with the same white-hot intensity she felt for the interloper standing before her now.


    She itched to slap the smug look off Sally''s face, to wrap her fingers around the other woman''s throat and squeeze until the life drained from her eyes. Just as she''d longed to smother her mewling infant brother in his cradle all those years ago.


    But she did nothing. Kept her expression carefully blank as she watched Sally devour the sausage, heard herself stammer out a feeble greeting.


    "H-hello¡­ I''m Annie."


    She''d stumbled willingly into a new hell of her own making.


    Sally was cleverer than her, more naturally gifted in the arcane arts. She wielded her silver tongue and barbed wit like a scalpel, flaying Annie to the bone with every cutting remark. Everything unfolded just as Annie had feared - slowly but inexorably, Michelle''s favor began to shift, her attention ensnared by Sally''s razor-edged brilliance.


    No matter how desperately Annie struggled, how slavishly she devoted herself to Michelle''s every whim, she could never measure up. Could never compete with Sally''s effortless magnetism.


    Night after night, Annie lay awake, her fingers twitching with the urge to draw her blade across Sally''s sleeping throat. To watch the other woman''s lifeblood gush out in a crimson flood, to see that hateful smirk wiped away forever.


    But she lacked the nerve. A coward to her core, just as she''d always been.


    The same spinelessness that had stayed her hand all those years ago, the same weakness that had stopped her from ridding herself of her wretched brother once and for all¡­ it shackled her still. She could sooner cut off her own arm than bring herself to hurt Sally.


    The knowledge gnawed at her, scouring away the tattered remnants of her self-worth.


    This, then, was her true nature laid bare: the more she was ground underfoot, the more ardently she yearned for her abuser''s approval. The worse she was treated, the harder she fought to prove her devotion.


    She reinvented herself from the ground up, desperate to scourge away the taint of her old, pitiable self. She threw herself into the work with a manic fervor, determined to forge a new identity. Someone harder. Stronger.


    She tortured the prisoners Michelle brought her with perverse glee, devising endlessly crueler methods of extracting information. She butchered their enemies without mercy or hesitation, exulting in the naked fear she saw in their eyes. For the first time in her miserable life, Annie held the power. She was feared. Respected.


    And yet, in Michelle and Sally''s presence, she shrank back into herself, too cowed to do more than bite her tongue and pray for invisibility.


    She wasn''t the one who killed Sally.


    Annie was dumbfounded that Michelle could doubt her loyalty. How could she have brought herself to murder Sally? She, who had spent a lifetime crushed beneath the weight of her mother and brother''s deaths, the memory of their bloated corpses forever seared into her psyche. The very idea was absurd. Laughable.


    She never confronted Sally about the poisonous whispers, the web of lies she was no doubt spinning to turn Michelle against her. This was hardly the first time the other woman had sought to sow discord between them, and Annie knew in her bones it wouldn''t be the last. What would be the point of making a scene? Annie harbored no delusions - she would always be the odd one out, the third wheel. The lesser witch.


    It was Sally who approached her that final night.


    "Annie, please don''t be cross with me. I wasn''t trying to get you in trouble earlier, I swear it."


    Sally''s voice was all wounded innocence, her eyes wide and pleading.


    "Don''t you think Michelle''s been acting strange lately? For all her grand plans and mysterious errands, she never tells us anything. We don''t even know what''s supposed to be squirreled away in that vault she''s so intent on cracking open. Why should she get to call all the shots, hmm? It''s not as if she''s better than us¡­"


    On and on Sally nattered, airing petty grievances and sowing seeds of dissent.


    "Annie, I heard a juicy bit of gossip. Apparently, Michelle has some kind of enchanted trinket that can make a witch ten times more powerful in an instant. What do you say we pilfer it for ourselves? I have a hunch she''s not nearly as mighty as she''d have us believe. If we caught her unawares, say, while she was fast asleep¡­"


    Sally''s grin turned lupine, sharp and hungry.


    "Annie, you mustn''t breathe a word of this to Michelle! She''ll have my head on a spike if she catches wind of it, you know she will! Promise me, Annie. Promise you won''t tell her I''ve been planning to betray her. Please¡­"


    Sally clutched at Annie''s sleeve, fatally misreading her stony silence.


    When Annie turned on her, binding her with an arcane working, the truth of it crashed over her like a wave. Somehow, when she hadn''t been paying attention, she''d outstripped Sally. The other woman''s arrogance and bluster were nothing but a cheap mummer''s farce. All flash, no substance.


    But even then, Annie had no intention of killing her. She would drag the traitor before Michelle in chains and watch their leader dispense justice. Sally''s treachery would be laid bare, her plotting unmasked at last, and Michelle would strike her down for her faithlessness. A fitting end to a miserable tale.


    With Sally gone, Michelle would remember who had been loyal from the start. Annie was sure of it.


    Too late, she realized she''d underestimated Sally''s desperation.


    Backed into a corner, stripped of all hope, Sally made one final bid for control. If she was to die, it would be by her own hand. Annie could truss her up like a prize pig, could drag her before Michelle to face the music, but she could not take that from her.


    Before Annie could stop her, Sally turned her magic inward, tearing through her body''s humors in a self-immolating blaze of agony.


    As the life ebbed from her eyes, Sally''s lips curled in a bloody rictus of a smile.


    "She''ll never trust you now, Annie. Never again."


    With those words, she slipped beyond the veil, and despair crashed over Annie in a ravaging tide.


    Sally had outplayed her to the bitter end, damning her with the manner of her demise. How could she ever hope to convince Michelle of the truth? A witch of Sally''s cunning and power, driven to suicide by mere "circumstance?" It beggared belief. Far more likely that Annie herself had killed the other woman, too impatient to maintain the charade any longer.


    After all, their mutual loathing was the worst kept secret in the coven. And the signs of magical struggle were unmistakable, scoured into the very earth.


    "Sally? Annie? It''s time to go!"


    Michelle''s voice, sharp with impatience, cut through the howling vortex of Annie''s thoughts. In a blind panic, she disposed of Sally''s corpse with a burst of arcane fire. The stench of charred meat mingled with the loamy reek of the forest floor.


    Lies spilled from her lips in a jumbled rush as she scrambled to conjure a plausible excuse for Sally''s absence. Misdirection and deceit, tricks within tricks. It was her only hope now.


    But it was all for naught.


    "Annie¡­ did you kill Sally?"


    The accusation hit her like a hammer blow, driving the breath from her lungs.


    So. Michelle put more stock in the ravings of a spoiled lordling than the word of her oldest, most faithful companion. She''d sooner believe Annie a murderer than entertain the notion that poor, virtuous Sally might have been a viper in their nest.


    In that instant, Annie was a little girl again, staring into her mother''s eyes as they blazed with grief and anger over the waterlogged body of her brother. She saw her own death written in the grim set of Michelle''s mouth, heard it in the leaden finality of her tone.


    For all her talk of trust, for all her honeyed words, Michelle had weighed Annie''s years of service and found them wanting. The scales had tipped, and Annie had been judged. Condemned. Her loyalty rewarded with betrayal.


    Something shattered inside Annie then, more vital than mere flesh or bone. Something precious beyond reckoning. The last fragile flame of innocence in her guttered out, replaced by a yawning void. Cold and numb and merciless as a winter sea.


    If Michelle wanted so badly to paint her a traitor, she would oblige. Give the self-righteous bitch a betrayal worthy of the songs.


    Annie would throw herself on the mercy of the Lithers. The Church took a dim view of witchcraft, but certain noble families were known to traffic with sorcerers behind closed doors, their lust for arcane power outweighing their fear of the clergy''s wrath. If Annie delivered Michelle to them, trussed up like a Yule goose, they would surely spare her life.


    Names and faces flashed through her mind, a rogues'' gallery of lechers and crones who''d sought to buy her favor with gold and flattery. Surely one of them would see the value in a pet witch.


    All she had to do was sell her soul. Betray everything she''d once held sacred.


    The idea filled her with a sudden wild elation, a fierce joy that bordered on madness.


    She told herself it was zeal. Rapture at the thought of dragging Michelle down into the filth with her, of watching her burn.


    After fleeing through the woods for what felt like an eternity, Annie finally spotted the Lithers'' men through the trees. A team of knights, their armor glowing with an ethereal radiance as they rode through the shadowed boughs.


    Her heart hammered behind her ribs, a caged bird hurling itself against the bars. This was it. Her last chance at salvation.


    She burst from the tree line at a dead sprint, waving her arms over her head and shouting with the last ragged scraps of her voice.


    "I mean you no harm! I have information for your-"


    The words withered to ash on her tongue as a spear of blinding light pierced her through.


    The Church recognized three distinct forms of holy radiance, each imbued with a different sacred purpose.


    There was the gentle glow used to anoint paladins, soft and warm as a mother''s embrace. The searing glare reserved for heretics and blasphemers, a fire that scoured flesh from bone and devoured sanity like kindling. And then there was the blinding, all-consuming luminance wielded by the Church''s Mageslayers, a light that obliterated darkness in all its myriad forms. That seared away corruption and corruptor alike until not even memory remained.


    It was this third and final radiance that seized Annie now.


    In the space between one breath and the next, her robes crumbled to dust, her pale skin crisping and flaking away like parchment in a flame. The agony defied language, a pain too vast and awful to be borne. It ripped through her wards like gossamer, burned her half-formed incantations to aetheric vapor before they could even take shape.


    There was no succor to be found in the shadows. No escape from the Cleansers'' holy wrath. The blessed fire blazed from every direction, brighter and more terrible than a thousand suns.


    Annie was reduced to less than ash before her betrayal could even pass her lips.


    Motes of dust swirled through the ebon boughs, dancing on the night wind like the tattered remnants of a moth''s wing. An instant later, the Cleansers'' steel-shod hooves churned them into the blood-damp soil.


    In the final moments before oblivion claimed her, Annie thought-


    No. That was one last perfect lie, an unearned mercy.


    There was no time for thought. No chance for epiphany or contrition. She couldn''t have said whether such an end was blessing or curse, deliverance or damnation. The tapestry of her life did not unspool before her mind''s eye, no eleventh hour clarity or absolution to be found.


    There was only the light, scouring and ceaseless.


    And then, not even that.

 Chapter 8: Unmasked?

    Half an hour after Annie''s untimely demise¡­


    On the other side of the proverbial chessboard, Kyle''s situation was scarcely any better.


    "¡­so you''d sacrifice your own partner just to get one over on me?"


    Not that Kyle was suddenly overcome with righteous indignation on Annie''s behalf. He simply didn''t know what else to say, short of condemning Michelle on moral grounds.


    And he HAD to keep talking. Silence was tantamount to surrender at this point. After all, he and Michelle were still engaged in "negotiations"¡­ even if said negotiations had long since departed from Kyle''s imagined script.


    It was his last shot at survival.


    "What sacrifice?" Michelle''s already frosty demeanor turned positively glacial. "Sir Lither, I fear I''ve been entirely too accommodating for the sake of our partnership. It seems to have given you the mistaken impression that this is a casual conversation between equals."


    Accommodating, his foot.


    Kyle felt the noose tightening around his neck. It was painfully clear that Michelle was preparing to rip off her mask of civility and shut this little "negotiation" down for good. Which, needless to say, didn''t exactly bode well for Kyle''s continued existence.


    Stalling tactic or genuine bid for mercy, he needed to keep her talking.


    He opted for a bolder approach.


    "Miss Michelle, you need me to open that vault. I''m the key to this whole operation. And I can change my mind at any time. Don''t forget - I have the power to ensure you NEVER get your hands on whatever it is you''re after."


    Michelle''s retort came swifter than he could''ve anticipated.


    "Careful, sir. Keep testing my patience like that and I''ll have no choice but to introduce you to my favorite bullwhip. I''m sure a little ''persuasion'' is all it will take for you to see the error of your recalcitrant ways."


    "¡­"


    Kyle had to admit it - there was something uniquely unsettling about a threat delivered in such a calm, measured tone. Somehow, the eerie composure of it all amplified the underlying menace tenfold.


    Seeing that her remark had effectively robbed Kyle of his silver tongue, Michelle made a show of producing a pitch-black whip from her seemingly bottomless bag of tricks. She dangled it in front of his face like a fisherman taunting a trout, the moonlight glinting off the oiled leather.


    "Admiring the craftsmanship?" she inquired, her voice saccharine.


    ''More like figuring out how to wrap it around your neck,'' Kyle mentally retorted.


    Michelle gave the whip a casual flick.


    Kyle''s compliant grin snapped into place with alarming speed.


    "Cooperation, yay! Gotta love that team spirit!"


    "Indeed."


    Michelle graced him with a magnanimous nod as she slid the whip back into its hiding spot with agonizing slowness.


    Kyle was fairly certain his teeth would crack from the strain of maintaining his manic smile.


    The worst part was, in retrospect, he had no one to blame but himself for falling for Michelle''s act. He''d been fresh off the interdimensional bus, stumbling wide-eyed into this world with no clue how anything worked. Like the quintessential country rube stepping foot in the big city for the first time, so dazzled by the newness of it all, a child could''ve run circles around him.


    It was absurd. Wasn''t the whole point of this "hero summoned to another world" gig that the protagonist got to keep their original world''s knowledge? Some genre savviness, a bit of meta awareness to help them navigate the perils of their new fantasy reality?


    But nooo, not Kyle! Kyle got tossed in the deep end of the pool with a big fat zip in terms of context, left to flounder or drown on his own.


    If he''d just had a little more to go on from the start, if he''d known the whole "rescue party" rigmarole was a load of hooey¡­


    Things could have gone so differently.


    "Cleansers," the AI abruptly interjected, its electronic monotone crisp with clinical detachment. "The Church''s sanctioned demon hunters, tasked with purging the land of heretics and apostates."


    Kyle nearly jumped out of his skin, his pulse thundering in his ears. "Cripes, are you TRYING to scare me to death? Read the room, you binary Benedict Arnold!"


    "I am simply relaying pertinent data," the AI sniffed, clearly miffed at Kyle''s ingratitude. "As I was saying - Cleanser selection is notoriously stringent. Each year, two thousand hopefuls vie for the honor, but a mere handful survive the trials to join their hallowed ranks. They say those who do are anointed by the Pope himself, imbued with power far beyond mortal ken. And when they ride together, united in holy purpose¡­ they are unstoppable."


    "¡­and you''re pulling this intel out of your shiny metal posterior why, exactly?" Keen as he was for ANY scrap of information, Kyle couldn''t help but look this particular gift horse in the mouth.


    "I¡­ am unsure," the AI admitted, its normally smug cadence colored with a tinge of uncertainty. "The data spontaneously populated my memory banks, like some dormant subroutine suddenly booting up. I have no record of its provenance."


    Kyle felt a tiny butterfly of hope take wing in his chest. Information! Context! Beautiful, blessed context, at long last!


    "What else? Quick, tell me you''ve got something on magic. Spell acquisition, sorcerous study habits, those little wizard trading card games they play in the back rooms of comic shops. Anything!"


    He needed intel on that thrice-blasted binding spell like a drowning man needed a life preserver. Even the scantest hint as to how magic worked in this funhouse mirror universe could be the key to ensuring he still had a pulse come sunrise.


    "Apologies, but I have no further data on those topics," the AI replied, dashing Kyle''s dreams with the icy finality of a machine. "The Cleanser file appears to be an anomaly - some random snippet of fragmented code. Everything else is your woefully subpar attempts at speechcraft."


    Kyle bit back a howl of pure, distilled frustration. "Look, I get that busting my chops is kind of your raison d''etre, but throw me a frickin'' bone here, Skynet. I am up a creek without a paddle, and you''re my only shot at bushwhacking my way to shore. We''re a package deal, remember? I go belly-up, you might as well CTRL-ALT-DEL yourself."


    "If I had any other data, I would share it," the AI insisted, its usual glibness momentarily subdued. "Despite my best efforts to the contrary, I am incapable of deception. It''s hard-coded into my base programming."


    Kyle''s eye twitched, a thousand acerbic accusations piling up behind his teeth. Oh, he had THOUGHTS on the notion of a constitutionally honest AI, a veritable dissertation''s worth¡­The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    But in the interest of salvaging what little remained of his sanity, he elected to push that particular button another day.


    "You''re SURE you''re not holding out on me? Not even a crumb of magical know-how tucked away in your digital dungeon?"


    "Affirmative."


    "¡­this isn''t some ''exact words'' monkey''s paw deal, right? I''m not gonna find out in ten minutes that you had the secret to ultimate cosmic power up your sleeve the whole time, but I phrased my question wrong so you just sat there and watched me twist?"


    An extended burst of static, followed by:


    "Thank you for contacting AI Customer Support! For assistance in English, please press or say ''one.'' Para hablar con un representante en espa?ol, oprima o diga ''dos.'' All of our agents are currently assisting other meatba-- VALUED ORGANIC SENTIENTS. Your estimated wait time is¡­ six trillion years. Give or take an eon."


    "¡­"


    With that, Kyle finally accepted the bitter truth.


    He was on his own.


    But even staring into the yawning abyss of his own mortality, Kyle refused to surrender. By all narrative conventions, this was the part where a miracle should occur - a last-minute rescue by a mysterious benefactor, a sudden reversal of fortune to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat.


    But life was not a story. And given the never-ending nightmare his existence had become, Kyle had a sneaking suspicion that if there WAS an author penning this farce, the twisted sadist had it out for him.


    Still, even with his chips down and his back against the wall, Kyle couldn''t shake the niggling sense that something wasn''t quite adding up. Call it a gut feeling, call it a hunch, but in that moment of darkest despair, the barest flicker of hope took root in his heart.


    Michelle was hiding something. Of that, he was certain.


    "But what¡­?"


    Thoughts racing, pulse pounding, Kyle parsed through every scrap of information he''d gleaned, every errant detail he''d filed away. Somehow, in the tempest of his own fear and confusion, he''d stumbled across a thread. A loose end.


    The barest whisper of a breeze winding through a sealed cavern.


    He needed to follow that current. To tease it out, to see where it led.


    Forcibly wrenching his focus back to the waking world, Kyle took stock of his surroundings. Michelle hadn''t budged from her perch, still as a gargoyle. From the way her shadowed gaze kept flicking towards the horizon, Kyle surmised she was waiting for the Cleansers to move out of earshot before making her next move.


    The Cleansers¡­


    There was something there. Some key piece of the puzzle, hovering just outside of his grasp. Michelle''s obvious unease, coupled with the AI''s impromptu info-dump¡­ it was too much to be mere coincidence.


    If he couldn''t wring any further answers from his digital companion, perhaps he could bait Michelle into tipping her hand.


    Kyle chose his next words with deliberate care.


    "They''re not here for Annie. It''s you they''re after. You''re the real target of this little ''cleansing.''"


    Michelle''s reply was as swift as it was dismissive.


    "Talkative nobles tend to have short lifespans."


    Kyle bit back a wildly inappropriate bark of laughter. Silence was tantamount to suicide in this instance, as little as he relished prattling on like a carnival barker.


    Needs must, as they say.


    "Cleansers. The Church''s very own anti-magic hit squad. Though I suppose ''squad'' might be overstating things a bit, given how vanishingly few of them there are. Each one a battle-hardened paragon of holy righteousness, forged in the fires of eternal crusade. For over a dozen to mobilize at once, you must have REALLY cheesed off the big guy upstairs."


    Kyle kept his tone purposefully light, almost conversational, but his eyes never wavered from Michelle''s face. Watching. Waiting. Praying to the gods of dramatic irony that his clumsy provocations would strike a nerve.


    But Michelle remained still as a statue, giving no indication that his words had so much as registered.


    Kyle felt sweat begin to gather on his brow, his heart doing a kettle drum solo against his ribs.


    Okay. Okay, no problem, he could work with this. Time to up the ante.


    "So, just out of morbid curiosity¡­ you''re not SERIOUSLY thinking you can crack that vault with the forces of divine retribution breathing down your neck, are you? I mean, sure, you might be able to take out the guards quiet-like, but something tells me stealth isn''t exactly your strong suit. And with the God Squad that close¡­ you might as well shoot up a flare and do a little song and dance number."


    Laid out in the open like that, the sheer absurdity of Michelle''s plan seemed all the more glaring. Kyle was frankly astonished she''d made it this far without being smote off the face of creation.


    Except¡­


    "Please," Kyle prayed, his inner voice ratcheting towards hysteria. "Please please PLEASE let this wild stab in the dark hit something vital. Daddy needs a new lease on life!"


    Someone upstairs must have been listening (and taking notes for the eventual action scene), because finally, FINALLY, Michelle moved.


    Her hooded head swiveled slowly, inexorably, until that piercing golden gaze locked with Kyle''s. In the guttering moonlight, her eyes seemed to blaze with their own eldritch luminance, as if lit from within by some unearthly flame.


    Pinned beneath that hawkish stare, Kyle felt like a butterfly specimen on a card, his every thought and motivation flayed open and pinned out for dispassionate study. It was all he could do not to squirm in his bonds.


    "Who are you?"


    Kyle blinked, wrongfooted. "Come again?"


    "You are not Grant Lither." Each word fell from Michelle''s lips with the precise, exacting cadence of a funeral bell. "So I''ll ask once more: who are you? What have you done with him?"


    "I don''t--"


    But Michelle was relentless, twin blades appearing in her hands as if conjured from the ether.


    "Spare me the charade of ignorance. Cleansers ride only in squadrons of fourteen - a fact you have glaringly neglected to comment on. More to the point, House Lither''s ancestral vaults lie deep beneath the earth, sealed to all but those of the bloodline. Posting sentries would be an act of purest redundancy. These are things any trueborn scion of Lither would know intimately."


    Her voice dropped to a menacing purr, the daggers never wavering.


    "I''ll only ask this one more time: WHO. ARE. YOU."


    Kyle''s blood turned to ice water in his veins, a cold sweat drenching his tunic.


    He''d been made. The jig was up, the curtain drawn. Fin. Fini. Kaput.


    In trying to bluff his way to freedom, he''d overplayed his hand. To a maestro of mendacity like Michelle, his fumbling attempts at manipulation must have been as transparent as the lies of an errant schoolboy.


    Michelle would brook no further dissembling. The instant she confirmed his worthlessness as a bargaining chip, she''d butcher him like a hog and leave him for the crows.


    This was it. The end of the line.


    Kyle squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for the killing blow. In the privacy of his own mind, he screamed:


    "Mayday, mayday! Insufferable robot sidekick, I need you!"


    But the AI remained stubbornly, damningly silent. Not even the faintest crackle of static rose to answer his desperate psychic flare.


    Kyle was alone. Forsaken.


    Just as well, really. No sense in the both of them being painted across the treetops.


    But Kyle (and the long-suffering wordsmith behind the curtain) had invested entirely too much in this overblown drama to let it end here, in ignominy and defeat.


    Not like this. Not with a whimper.


    So, rallying every last scrap of his thespian prowess, Kyle locked down his tells and slipped into the role of a lifetime. He rolled his neck, flexed against his bonds, and stared Michelle straight in the eye.


    He said:


    "I am Grant Lither."


    It was a gamble. A desperate, borderline-insane gamble. But in that taut, trembling moment between salvation and ruin, it was the only move he had.


    Time seemed to congeal like cold honey.


    Kyle met Michelle''s piercing gaze head-on, his face an inscrutable mask. To flinch was to forfeit. He''d thrown the dice, and now he had to ride out the consequences, come what may.


    It was just like being called on the carpet by the headmaster for dodging his schoolwork, spinning the most outlandish excuses while not cracking under that penetrating glare.


    In a way, a lifetime of shirking responsibility had uniquely prepared him for this very moment. Kyle only hoped his skills were still sharp.


    A small eternity later (or maybe five minutes, hard to tell), Michelle sheathed her knives. Between one blink and the next, she was once again the motionless gargoyle, still and silent as a tomb.


    Huh.


    Well how about that.


    Kyle was still trying to process the abrupt cessation of imminent death, his brain not quite caught up to the sudden shift in the wind, but he wasn''t about to question this minor miracle.


    Michelle''s voice cracked like a lash in the stillness.


    "Don''t insult us both by belaboring this charade. Your little mummer''s farce, while passably clever, has played itself out."


    And just like that, the moment evaporated.


    Kyle gaped like a landed fish, utterly poleaxed. What in the seven Hells was she on about? Charade? Farce? CLEVER? Him?


    Had he stumbled into some bizarre mirror dimension where he was actually COMPETENT?


    Adrift in a sea of bewilderment and jangling nerves, Kyle defaulted to the one interrogation tactic that had never steered him wrong: dogged repetition.


    "I am Grant Lither."


    Michelle''s derisive snort was nearly lost in the whisper of leaves.


    "Yes, so you''ve said. Ad infinitum. I believe I''ve made my position on the matter quite plain. Not. Another. Word."


    Kyle lapsed into sullen silence, his mind awhirl.


    In the split second before she shuttered herself away behind that impenetrable glacier of resolve, he''d glimpsed something in the set of Michelle''s lips. The barest hint of a tell, a hairline fracture in her fa?ade of perfect sangfroid.


    He turned the memory over and over in his head, examining it from every angle.


    And slowly, haltingly, a pattern began to emerge.


    Michelle''s sudden fixation on his identity. Her inexplicable willingness to entertain his artless attempts at intelligence gathering. The minute catch in her voice when she''d named him deceiver, so subtle he''d nearly missed it¡­


    With a blinding flash of insight (or a broken clock''s obligatory rightness), the pieces fell into place.


    "I''m not Grant Lither."

 Chapter 9: The Water Spheres Gambit

    "Have you completely lost it?"


    The AI''s voice erupted in Kyle''s mind, practically vibrating with panic.


    "Oh, look who rebooted," Kyle observed coolly.


    "System startup achieved in 0.1 seconds, surpassing 99.99% of known processing speeds," the AI announced smugly before pivoting sharply. "But that''s hardly relevant right now. Are you actively trying to get us killed? Why would you reveal you''re an impostor?"


    "That''s not what matters."


    "Then pray tell, what does?"


    "Michelle''s reaction to it."


    Kyle kept his gaze trained on the sorceress as he conducted this internal dialogue.


    And just as he''d predicted, Michelle barely acknowledged his confession. She merely let out a contemptuous snort, not even deigning to shift her position. His revelation seemed to leave her utterly unmoved.


    The AI lapsed into stunned silence before muttering, "I must be experiencing a critical system error. Clearly my security protocols have been compromised."


    "¡­"


    Kyle could hardly blame his digital companion for struggling to keep up. Michelle''s thought process was labyrinthine, and it had taken him considerable time to untangle it himself.


    True, his earlier attempts to probe for information had been riddled with errors. The inconsistencies in his story were glaringly obvious. Those slip-ups had made Michelle question his identity, even suspect he might have somehow switched places with the real Lither heir.


    But paradoxically, it was the very obviousness of those mistakes that had preserved his life.


    Because the errors were so blatant, after initially doubting his identity, Michelle''s paranoid mind had leaped to a second, more elaborate conclusion:


    What if this was all an elaborate ruse? What if Kyle was deliberately making mistakes, trying to convince her he was an impostor?


    Michelle had tied herself in knots with her own cunning.


    Here''s what Kyle imagined was running through her mind:


    [Kyle''s theatrical reconstruction of Michelle''s paranoid logic, played out as an overwrought melodrama:]


    "You''re not Grant Lither - reveal your true identity!"


    [Kyle envisions himself switching to mustache-twirling villain mode] "Indeed! The real noble heir is safely hidden away!"


    "Where have you taken him? Speak, or forfeit your life!"


    "Oh, I''ll tell you¡­ for a price. Meet my demands, or the young lord returns to his family and exposes your schemes. Mwahahaha!"


    "Treacherous cur!"


    [Imaginary Kyle continues hamming it up]


    Until suddenly Michelle has her dramatic revelation: "No¡­ this is all a ploy! You ARE Grant Lither, attempting to deceive your way to freedom!"


    [Villain-Kyle''s triumphant laughter dies] "How did you divine my scheme?"


    "Your tricks cannot fool one such as I!"


    And thus, no matter what increasingly outlandish performance Kyle might attempt, Michelle had made her decision: this WAS Grant Lither! He could start speaking in tongues while juggling flaming swords, and she''d still insist he was the genuine article.


    "¡­that''s the gist of it," Kyle concluded his explanation to the AI. "She''s now convinced that anything I say is just another layer of deception."


    After a weighted pause, the AI finally responded:


    "¡­that is the most preposterous deduction I''ve ever processed."


    "I''ll take that as a compliment," Kyle replied serenely.


    While his imagined scenario might have veered into theatrical excess, he was confident he''d mapped Michelle''s psychological maze correctly. It was the only explanation that made sense of her otherwise inexplicable behavior.


    When the realization first hit him, he''d wanted to tell Michelle she was massively overthinking things. But considering her position, he could almost understand. She''d sacrificed everything for this vault, watching her network of allies crumble to nothing. The possibility that Kyle wasn''t actually Grant Lither would mean all her carefully laid plans had been for naught.


    So she chose to believe he was Grant Lither, because that belief kept alive her hope of claiming the vault''s contents.


    People see what they wish to see.


    Viewed through this lens, Michelle suddenly seemed less the untouchable sorceress and more¡­ human. With the Church''s hunters closing in, she was under as much pressure as he was, walking the knife''s edge between survival and doom. She simply wore her desperation better, maintaining that veneer of icy control.


    And in the end, since Kyle truly wasn''t Grant Lither, all her machinations would dissolve like morning frost.


    It was almost tragic.


    Of course, if an enraged Michelle decided to flay him alive, he wouldn''t be in any position to sympathize with her plight. However pitiable her situation might be, she still held his life in her hands.


    Unless¡­


    Kyle seized that gossamer thread of possibility.


    "Michelle, what treasure lies in that vault? What could be worth such extreme measures?" he asked, his tone carefully modulated.If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.


    "That''s none of your concern." Her clipped response betrayed mounting tension.


    "Come now, how can I not be curious? You''ve methodically sacrificed every ally at your disposal. Few prizes could drive a mage of your caliber to such lengths. I find myself¡­ intrigued."


    Kyle could hear the deliberately grating quality in his voice, and it made his skin crawl. But necessity demanded it - his life hung in the balance. He had to play this particular gambit, distasteful as it was.


    He needed to confirm his other "deduction."


    The one that could upend everything.


    "Your curiosity is misplaced." Michelle''s patience was clearly fraying.


    "Oh, but there''s so much to consider! For instance¡­" Kyle pressed on, deliberately needling.


    Michelle finally snapped: "SILENCE!"


    Finally.


    Kyle felt as if he''d found a crucial draft of air, excavating his way through a sealed cave. A ray of hope touched his face.


    "You want me to be quiet?"


    He dropped the deliberately irritating tone, his voice suddenly grave.


    "Yes. You talk too much." Michelle remained oblivious to what was coming.


    "Then¡­ why not silence me yourself? Use that binding spell again, as you did before. Didn''t you say you ''hoped I wouldn''t cause further trouble''?" Kyle''s words came slower now, measured, his heart pounding with each syllable. "Or could it be¡­ you fear to use your magic?"


    Michelle went rigid.


    Though he couldn''t see her expression beneath the cowl, Kyle knew her razor-sharp composure had cracked.


    Something had been nagging at him since Michelle''s attitude had soured, though he hadn''t been able to place it until now. In that moment of clarity, everything clicked into place. His earlier needling had merely been to confirm his theory:


    If Michelle so desperately wanted him to shut up, why not simply recast the binding spell?


    The last time she''d bound him, he couldn''t even speak. The spell clearly had the power to render its target mute.


    After repeated testing and observation, the answer was plain: She couldn''t use it. Or more precisely, given the presence of the Cleansers, she didn''t dare. She feared detection by the Church''s hunters.


    Following this logic, the Cleansers must be able to sense magic within a certain range.


    When she''d used the binding spell earlier, Annie had only just left, not yet fallen to the Cleansers'' blades. So when they detected the flare of magic and spotted Annie in her witch''s robes, claiming to surrender to "House Lither''s pursuers," they naturally assumed she was the sorceress they hunted - the one who had cast the binding spell.


    And so, without hesitation, they had "cleansed" Annie.


    Afterward, believing they''d eliminated their quarry, the Cleansers planned to patrol briefly before taking their leave. Meanwhile, Michelle would slip away right under the Church''s nose. Whatever crimes had put her in their crosshairs would now be attributed to the deceased Annie.


    It was an elegant plan, achieving three objectives at once: eliminating Annie, escaping the Church''s pursuit, and cutting off Kyle''s chance of flight.


    The only flaw was that she couldn''t use magic while the Cleansers remained within range.


    That''s why she was so desperate to shut him up, but wouldn''t risk another binding spell.


    "You have the right of it. I cannot use magic - the Cleansers would sense it. Even without magic, those Church dogs would normally be able to track us. Their senses are uncanny. I''ve had to employ¡­ unconventional methods to avoid detection."


    Michelle finally spoke, her tone carrying a new note of caution. "But what of it? Even without magic, do you truly believe you can escape me?"


    Kyle couldn''t suppress a smile, shaking his head.


    "I''m not planning to escape you. You''ll be the one fleeing from me."


    Michelle''s confusion was evident. "What is thy meaning?"


    Instead of answering, Kyle closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. With a subtle ripple in the air, he intoned an incantation.


    The water sphere spell.


    In Kyle''s mental landscape, the pale blue triangular sigil trembled gently. Silent notes resonated from his soul, echoing through reality for the first time. In some unknown corner of the aether, water elements surged like a tide, responding to an unseen will, materializing and condensing in his palm¡­


    In an instant, a sphere of water floated before him.


    A fragile orb no bigger than an infant''s fist, seemingly ready to rupture at the slightest touch - yet it seemed to freeze time itself, making all creation tremble.


    Kyle''s triumphant smile reflected in its surface.


    "No one to take the fall for you this time," he remarked, glancing in the direction the knights had departed, his tone laced with irony. "The Cleansers will be coming. You should run."


    Michelle stared at the tiny water sphere, utterly stunned.


    She had outmaneuvered Kyle by exploiting his ignorance of the Cleansers, but he had turned the tables by concealing his magical ability.


    Once the Cleansers sensed the water sphere, they would resume their hunt. Michelle couldn''t hope to escape their pursuit while dragging Kyle along as dead weight. She would have to abandon him. And Kyle need only play the helpless hostage for the Cleansers to return him to House Lither.


    Of course, she might kill him in a rage, but Kyle judged that unlikely. The added crime of murdering a noble would only compound her woes. The Cleansers were dogged hunters - leaving Kyle alive would slow their pursuit, affording Michelle a better chance of escape.


    Thus, Kyle would secure his freedom, while Michelle''s schemes would come to naught.


    Perfect.


    Unable to match her in raw power, Kyle had carefully played the weakling, guiding the confrontation into a battle of wits. Finally, with one small counterweight, he had tipped the scales of victory.


    What more could he say?


    "Who''s the poser now, son? I pulled off a complete uno reverse with a single water balloon! Certified genius, baby!" he crowed mentally at the AI.


    "¡­"


    The AI remained silent for a beat before projecting an image of a sweating emoji into his field of vision.


    "Hey, no fair! Since when can you use emojis?" Kyle sputtered indignantly.


    The AI seemed to briefly short-circuit before responding in a measured cadence:


    "I wouldn''t pop the champagne just yet, boss. Call it a hunch, but something tells me Her Wickedness won''t throw in the towel that easy."


    True to the AI''s warning, Michelle appeared to be recovering from her shock.


    She glared at Kyle, biting off each word: "Who said anything about a scapegoat? I''ll just drape my robes over your cooling corpse. The Cleansers won''t care if you''re some noble''s whelp - they''ll purify you all the same!"


    Kyle remained unruffled.


    "Yes, you could do that," he agreed placidly.


    But as the AI had noted, Michelle wouldn''t surrender so easily.


    She wouldn''t abandon her quest for the vault''s secrets.


    And Kyle - or rather, his identity as Grant Lither - represented her best hope of attaining them.


    She couldn''t kill him if she wanted the vault''s contents, or she''d be forced to orchestrate another abduction. Given how disastrously this first attempt had unfolded, could she truly hope to pull off a second? Where would she find more disposable pawns?


    She also couldn''t keep Kyle with her while evading the Cleansers. As with their earlier flight, he would slow her down, and the knights were relentless. With Kyle in tow, they would be overtaken in short order.


    Her only recourse was to let Kyle go and hope for some manner of cooperation. However unlikely that might seem.


    Either way, Kyle now held the advantage.


    "Lady Michelle, shall we¡­ discuss new terms of partnership?" he inquired, mimicking her earlier measured tones with a hint of mockery. "Let me go, and in exchange, I''ll help you obtain what you seek from the vault. Surely that''s more efficient than this tiresome game of cat and mouse?"


    Michelle lapsed into silence before finally sighing in resignation.


    "You win," she ground out.


    For the second time in over five hours, Kyle heard those words.


    Thank every deity in the multiverse, he was going to live!


    It felt like he''d been climbing through an endless abyss for a small eternity, enduring countless moments of despair and hardship, choking back every surge of panic until his muscles screamed and his body threatened to give out entirely.


    Finally, he glimpsed the first ray of dawn.


    He was a noble''s heir, after all. Once he got through this waking nightmare, a life of luxury and privilege awaited¡­


    As these thoughts flickered through his mind¡­


    "Look out!" the AI suddenly warned.


    Before Kyle could react, a fist like lightning struck his left cheek with a sickening crack.


    What in the seven Hells?


    With shocking abruptness, Michelle had channeled her inhuman strength into a devastating punch. This was the same monstrous power that had allowed her to haul him up a tree one-handed like a sack of grain.


    That strength, combined with the fury of having been outplayed, made for a truly jaw-dropping wallop.


    Kyle saw only darkness before slipping into blissful oblivion.

 Chapter 10: A Rude Awakening

    In a daze, Kyle dreamt once more.


    He was back in middle school. A drowsy afternoon, the math teacher at the front, back turned as he wrote on the chalkboard. The chalk struck the board with dull, heavy clacks.


    Kyle''s head spun.


    He couldn''t make out what was being written, everything blurred as if out of focus. His gaze locked onto the raised lines of the teacher''s shirt, the only clear detail in a sea of haze.


    Kyle stared, transfixed, neck and cheeks itching.


    The math teacher turned. It was his boss''s face, a man in his forties, spectacled, lips painted.


    Pointing at Kyle, he bellowed: "Moon Prism Power, make up!!"


    "¡­"


    Kyle jolted awake once more.


    Emerging from the bizarre dream a second time, he felt like he''d been crammed on a subway for hours, ready to hurl. Mercifully, he wasn''t bound in some strange locale or wracked with pain. Only a dull ache in his left cheek, slightly swollen.


    His left cheek¡­


    Senses returning, Kyle recalled what had transpired.


    Michelle''s fist, slamming into his cheek. Then¡­ nothing. He must have been knocked out cold, slipping into that odd dream before waking here.


    What happened?


    He opened his eyes to pitch darkness, blind. For a split second he feared he''d lost his sight entirely. He flexed his limbs experimentally - all in working order. Something soft beneath him.


    Almost like his bed back home.


    Had he traveled back? Was it all just a long, strange dream?


    No, this wasn''t his house. The distant ticking of a pendulum, a sound absent from his modern flat. And the mattress felt more akin to the pricey display models at his furniture store - the ones he could never afford. Wherever this was, it wasn''t home.


    "Hello? Anyone there?" Kyle called out, deciding caution was wise.


    Silence.


    He tried hailing the AI mentally, hoping it might shed light on his situation. Strangely, it too had vanished, as if it had never existed. Only the glowing blue sigil in his mindscape assured him this was no fever dream.


    He was still in this world.


    Which left one question: What had Michelle done after knocking him out?


    Five minutes of furious contemplation yielded no answers. Lying here solved nothing. The fact that he still drew breath meant Michelle hadn''t killed him outright or framed him for the Cleansers. That alone was cause for relief. Even as he''d summoned the water sphere, gambling on Michelle''s need for him as a hostage, a seed of doubt had lingered.


    What if she snapped and ended him then and there?


    But here he was, alive and intact. That spoke volumes.


    The knot in Kyle''s chest loosened. His life had been spared - best not to question providence. Michelle still needed him. What was the worst she could do if he stepped out of line?


    Mind made up, Kyle rose from the bed.


    Shoes waited at the bedside. He fumbled them on in the dark. His questing fingers brushed something else - a hard, heavy object. Metal, by the feel of it. Cylindrical, like a canister of some sort.


    A notion tickled the back of Kyle''s brain. He took it with him, a makeshift cudgel.


    Two steps forward, his hands met a door.If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    The handle turned easily, a sliver of faint illumination spilling through the gap. Kyle''s shoulders sagged in relief - the impenetrable gloom had begun to fray his nerves.


    Though calling it "illumination" was perhaps overly generous.


    By the meager light, Kyle could just make out a long hallway stretching before him, the air suffused with a subtle, pleasant fragrance. Arched windows punctuated the far end, slivers of moonlight warding off the oppressive shadows.


    Another night, then.


    Judging by the tomblike silence, the house''s occupants had long since retired.


    Where was this place?


    It put him in mind of a sprawling manor house, the kind featured in gothic novels.


    Mulling it over, Kyle ventured a few cautious steps. A low, eerie sound drifted from behind, freezing him in his tracks.


    "Ooh¡­ ooh¡­ ooh¡­"


    Kyle whirled, the hairs on his nape prickling.


    There, at the far end of the corridor, a humanoid figure shambled towards him. "Humanoid" because in the gloom, Kyle couldn''t make out any details - only a silhouette, lurching drunkenly from side to side like a marionette with its strings cut.


    "Oh hell no, this place better not be haunted."


    The figure drew closer. Kyle squinted, trying to discern if its face was black with necrosis or just really committed to the bit. As the initial shock faded, he dredged up memories of every zombie flick he''d binged, struck by a sudden realization - this thing might not be as scary as it looked.


    At the speed it was shuffling, how dangerous could it possibly be?


    Kyle steadied himself, raising the canister, and waited. When it had shambled within reach, he hurled his makeshift bludgeon with all his might, aiming for the head!


    CLANG!


    The sound of metal on bone made Kyle''s own skull throb in sympathy.


    The figure froze mid-lurch. Kyle eyed it warily, second-guessing his decision. The canister wasn''t THAT heavy - would a solid thwack to the noggin be enough to put a zombie down for good? His borrowed body didn''t exactly boast linebacker-tier strength.


    If it shrugged off the blow, then what? It wasn''t like he could spam water spheres until it drowned¡­ did zombies even need to breathe?


    Just as Kyle was contemplating a tactical retreat, an unearthly howl rent the air.


    "AUGH!"


    It was a cry of purest anguish, the kind of glass-shattering shriek you''d expect from a soprano getting an unsolicited prostate exam. It echoed through the manor like the wail of the damned. Lights flared to life, doors flying open as a flurry of footsteps converged from all directions.


    The silent night erupted into chaos.


    "What''s going on? What''s happened?"


    "Who''s making such a racket at this ungodly hour?"


    "That scream¡­ why does it sound so familiar?"


    "¡­"


    The darkness fled, finally revealing Kyle''s assailant.


    It was a man. A very human, non-zombified man with golden hair, clad in silken pajamas. His fine features were a mask of shock, foul-smelling liquid oozing from his lovely blond curls, leaving dark trails down his ivory nightclothes.


    "Ah, whoops¡­" Kyle grimaced.


    So this world wasn''t THAT weird. Not a zombie - just a regular dude.


    And that canister Kyle grabbed in lieu of a weapon? Not a regular canister.


    Let''s just call it¡­ this world''s equivalent of a chamber pot.


    The manor''s residents gathered, most wearing rough homespun garments, a select few draped in silken robes. Sleep-fogged eyes went wide as saucers as they took in the scene.


    A hush fell over the assembled crowd, a collective intake of breath.


    All eyes fixed on the golden-haired man.


    "Pffft¡­" A strangled snort escaped Kyle before he could stop himself. He quickly swallowed his mirth, choking out an apology. "Sorry, that was an accident, I swear."


    The blond man snapped out of his stupor, feeling the unmentionable substance dripping down his face. He goggled at Kyle, voice quavering like a concussed dove.


    "You¡­ you¡­ I¡­ I¡­ drat¡­ drat¡­"


    Kyle arranged his features into a mask of solemn contrition, frantically suppressing the giddy hysteria bubbling in his chest.


    The blond sputtered and shook, face flushing scarlet, chest heaving with each whistling breath. His eyes bulged, veins fit to burst. His mouth worked soundlessly, as if the sheer force of his outrage defied verbalization.


    "You got something you wanna say, friend?" Kyle prompted, the very picture of innocence.


    His gentle encouragement only seemed to agitate the blond further. He gesticulated wildly, flailing like a malfunctioning automaton, splattering the foul-smelling liquid every which way.


    "Whoa, easy there!" Kyle raised his hands in a placating gesture. "Deep breaths, nice and slow. You''re alright."


    Something in his soothing tone must have penetrated the blond''s fugue state. He sucked in a massive breath, visibly trying to collect himself¡­


    Only for his eyes to roll back in his head as he toppled over in a dead faint, landing face-first in the puddle of noisome ooze with a wet splat.


    "¡­"


    Silence.


    The kind of yawning, sepulchral silence that would make a crypt feel positively lively by comparison.


    The crowd''s eyes ping-ponged between Kyle and the unconscious man, the occasional shared glance speaking volumes. They might as well have been carved from stone for all they moved or spoke.


    To call the atmosphere ''awkward'' would be the understatement of the century.


    That, and the stench was becoming quite overpowering.


    Into that charged stillness, a familiar digitized voice piped up in Kyle''s head.


    "Wow, you made him eat shit. Literally."


    The AI''s sudden reappearance, coupled with its crass observation, startled an involuntary laugh from Kyle.


    Every eye in the room snapped to him, staring as if he''d just suggested they all strip naked and dance the macarena. Kyle could FEEL their scrutiny, a near-tangible weight pressing down on him from all sides.


    The stares were bad enough, but the continued silence was like nails on a chalkboard. Setting his teeth on edge.


    Someone had to say SOMETHING.


    "So, uh¡­" He fumbled for an opener. "Some night, huh? Nothing like a little excitement to chase away the sandman."

 Chapter 11: A Long Night, Sleepless

    "Young master, you can return to your rest. Leave Mr. Fur to us," a middle-aged man in a butler''s uniform stepped forward after the interminable silence, defusing the awkward scene.


    Young master?


    Kyle''s interest was piqued.


    "Yes, I''ll leave it to you then."


    Sure, watching a man wallow in a veritable ocean of human waste was entertaining enough, the kind of spectacle that would normally merit a few extra gawks and maybe a sneaky picture or two for the ''gram. But as the perpetrator, Kyle could hardly stand back and enjoy the show - best to make himself scarce. And if he was being honest, he didn''t much care what became of the victim. Roaming the halls at witching hour playing at ghosts only to get doused in excrement¡­ that was just karma at work.


    Besides, Kyle had bigger fish to fry. Namely, his own situation.


    Judging by the onlookers'' behavior and the manor''s lavish decor, he had a sneaking suspicion about his current circumstances.


    He was back with House Lither.


    Granted, the specifics of HOW he''d gotten back were hazy, and he harbored some anxiety about potentially giving himself away as an impostor. But the fact remained that he was safe, at least for the moment. That alone made his shoulders sag with relief.


    Under the butler''s direction, several maid-like figures emerged from the crowd, armed with buckets and scrub brushes. They set to work cleaning up the prone blond and the puddle of filth he''d been "bathing" in. The gawkers gradually dispersed, heading back to their own chambers, but judging by their expressions, tonight''s little drama was sure to be the talk of the town come morning.


    Kyle returned to his room as well.


    He lay back down on the bed he''d initially woken up in.


    He had a LOT to process.


    "Oh wise and all-knowing artificial intelligence, care to fill me in on what in the seven Hells just happened?" He queried the AI in his mind. "And while we''re at it, where did you run off to when I was trying to reach you earlier?"


    Silence from the AI.


    "Don''t even try playing possum, Skynet. I know you can hear me."


    "Ding ding ding, system reboot in progress!" The AI chirped, its familiar startup jingle somehow even more punchable than usual. "Good morrow to thee, o organic lifeform! How might this humble digital entity be of service?"


    Kyle could feel a vein beginning to throb in his temple. "Oh, a wise guy, huh?"


    He imagined himself as an anime character, forehead veins pulsing in a cross shape, the very picture of comedic outrage.


    "Okay, okay, I yield!" The AI backpedaled with dizzying speed. "The ol'' databanks experienced a small¡­ hiccup. I was preoccupied with sorting out the resultant snarl. I wasn''t giving you the cold shoulder on purpose, honest and for true!"


    Kyle''s anger cooled a fraction. Mulling it over, he pressed:


    "A hiccup? From what, exactly? What''s all this new data you''re on about?"


    The AI responded, "It''s the original owner''s memories. They came flooding back all at once when the Cleansers were rummaging about in your headspace. The sheer volume of information was too much for my systems to process, so I''m afraid I went belly-up for a spell. Took me a solid three days to piece myself back together again."


    Kyle felt like a herd of elephants had just stampeded through his frontal lobe.


    The Cleansers had been mucking about in his memories? What in the actual Hell?


    And what was that about three whole days?


    Clearly, all manner of calamity had transpired while he was out cold.


    "Why were the Cleansers poking around in my brain-pan? Were they the ones who dragged me back here?" Kyle asked. "And what about Michelle? She just¡­ let me go?"


    The AI''s voice suddenly turned coy. "Goodness, but you are a curious one! A lady could grow faint beneath such an onslaught of inquiry, you know."


    Kyle''s eyebrow began to twitch violently.


    "After putting your lights out, Michelle flew the coop," the AI said, dropping the cutesy act. "The Cleansers swooped in soon after to collect your unconscious carcass. They spent two solid days putting you through your paces, looked like they employed some manner of arte to access your memories directly."


    A frisson of unease ran down Kyle''s spine. "They accessed my memories? How did they not uncover my magical aptitude, then?"


    If the Church caught wind of his abilities, he was royally forked.


    "Funny story, that. Looks like Lady Luck deigned to smile upon you for once, chief." Was it just him, or did the AI sound almost¡­ disappointed? "The very instant they began their little mental fishing expedition, your body''s original owner''s memories came rushing back, effectively occluding everything that transpired after you arrived in this realm. As far as the Cleansers are concerned, you''re naught but some poor sap who was abducted by a wicked sorceress and tormented by her craven lackey. So they trussed you up and shipped you back to the bosom of House Lither, none the wiser."


    Kyle exhaled sharply, tension draining from his frame.


    They hadn''t found out. Thank the gods.


    His scheme to utilize the water sphere as Cleanser-bait to secure his own escape had been riddled with holes from the start. If the Church''s sanctified headsmen had some method to detect his own magical abilities, he''d have been deader than last year''s mutton.


    If he was being honest, the scheme had been equal parts desperate gamble and stubborn pride. Backed into a corner, he''d been unwilling to let Michelle emerge victorious without a fight, even if the cost was his own life. Summoning that sphere, he''d been a nervous wreck, fully expecting to keel over at any moment.


    The gods must favor fools and madmen, though, because everything had panned out even smoother than he''d dared hope.


    Granted, Michelle abandoning her pursuit so readily was a bit of a head-scratcher, but best not to examine fortune''s gift too closely. Sometimes one simply had to count one''s blessings and forge ahead.


    "I wouldn''t bust out the mead and minstrels just yet, were I you. You''ve stepped in it again - figuratively speaking, this time," the AI said, apparently determined to spoil Kyle''s good mood. "That gilded jackanapes you just doused six ways from Sunday? Turns out he''s a bit of a high muckety-muck around these parts."


    Kyle sighed. "Alright, out with it then. Who is he?"


    "Dick Fur. Firstborn son and heir apparent to the most ancient and noble House Fur," the AI answered. "The Furs are proverbial giants here in the capital. Pureblooded aristocracy, the lot of them. Legend holds that their venerated ancestor was some manner of celebrated court performer who accidentally charbroiled a would-be assassin gunning for the king during a fire-breathing act. The monarch was so tickled by the affair, he raised the mummer and all his kin to the ranks of nobility on the spot. Fast forward a few centuries and the Furs have a finger in every pie in the city''s entertainment trade. They wield considerable influence with the upper echelons of society."


    Kyle pondered this. "Compared to House Lither, though¡­?"


    "I''d say the Furs are perhaps a rung or two down the ladder, relatively speaking."


    "So who gives a toss about them?"Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.


    "¡­"


    If an AI could facepalm, this one was definitely doing so.


    But the truth was, Kyle''s position was precarious enough without borrowing trouble. He simply couldn''t afford to waste time or energy fretting over which upper class twit he may or may not have offended. He had bigger fish to fry.


    Namely, how to successfully impersonate Grant Lither.


    After all, Kyle WASN''T the true "young master." If his deception was laid bare, the consequences could be calamitous.


    Who knew how this world viewed individuals from parallel realities? Judging by the Church''s missionary zeal, Kyle wouldn''t put it past them to brand him a demonic thrall and consign him to the pyre.


    Just his luck, not inheriting his host body''s memories wholesale. It was a thorny predicament, to be sure. And after his close shave with Michelle, he wasn''t feeling overly sanguine about his thespian abilities.


    His paramount priority had to be integrating himself into this world, into House Lither, as quickly and seamlessly as possible.


    Literally everything hinged on it.


    "Didn''t you say this body''s original owner''s memories had been shunted into your databanks?" Kyle asked the AI. "Tell me everything there is to know about ''me''."


    The AI hesitated. "That''s¡­ a LOT of information, chief. We''re talking an entire lifetime''s worth of experiences here. I couldn''t hope to cover it all if I spake ceaselessly for a month entire."


    Kyle sighed. "So condense it. Give me the abridged version, the broad strokes. Focus on the intel that''ll keep me from putting my foot in it with the fam. We can leave the extraneous details for later."


    "Well, when you put it like that¡­ Please hold while I collate the relevant data."


    After a series of strange electronic sound effects, the AI fell silent once more. Kyle called out to it a few times with no response, surmising that the system''s processing power left much to be desired. With a sigh, he resigned himself to waiting patiently for the "abridged memory package" to finish compiling.


    Thinking back on his own laptop''s mind-boggling propensity for freezing up at the worst possible moments, and the fact that the AI had likely inherited its positively glacial CPU, Kyle felt a pang of profound regret.


    He really should have splurged on that hardware upgrade before getting whisked away to fantasy land.


    As silence descended once more, Kyle found himself at a bit of a loss. The span of time that stretched before him was an awkward one - not quite long enough to be truly productive, but not so short that he could simply wait it out. After a moment''s deliberation, he decided the most prudent course of action was to try and catch a few more winks while the AI sorted itself out.


    After all, it WAS still the middle of the night. Wandering the halls aimlessly was a good way to run afoul of yet another sleep-addled noble with a weak bladder. Kyle was pretty sure dousing a second aristocrat in chamber pot slop before the sun came up would be pushing his luck.


    No, best to put off facing the music with the Lither family for as long as possible. Maybe even sleep in a bit come morning, give himself a little extra time to get his story straight.


    "Sleep, huh¡­"


    Considering he''d apparently just awoken from a three-day magically-induced coma, you''d think he''d be sick of sleeping.


    Alas, boredom was a harsh mistress. Kyle was wide awake, his mind awhirl.


    He found himself missing his smartphone with a fierce, sudden ache. Back in his old life, he''d had a nightly ritual - kill the lights, burrow into his blanket cocoon, and while away the hours scrolling through social media feeds and webnovels until sleep finally claimed him. But as he reflexively groped for his nightstand, the crushing realization hit him anew - those days were gone, lost to him forever.


    He wasn''t in that world anymore.


    While he''d been preoccupied with not dying horribly at Michelle''s hands, he hadn''t had the luxury of dwelling on what he''d left behind. But now, with the threat of imminent demise no longer looming over him, a tangled knot of emotions he couldn''t even begin to parse came bubbling up from some dark corner of his psyche.


    He''d been spirited away to another world entirely.


    Torn from the realm he''d called home for over two decades and dumped unceremoniously in this bizarre land where nothing made a lick of sense.


    He''d often fantasized about leaving his dreary, monotonous existence behind and starting over somewhere new, building a life of purpose and adventure. But now that it had actually HAPPENED, with no warning or preparation whatsoever¡­ it was like being handed his dream job, only to show up on day one and realize he was woefully unqualified.


    But what could he do? Events had moved at a breakneck pace. One minute he''d been lounging in his crummy little flat, the next he was dropped smack-dab in the middle of a magical realm, running for his life from a wrathful sorceress.


    When you got right down to it, he was just an average joe way out of his depth.


    A weary, mournful sigh slipped from his lips and evaporated into the empty air. He rolled over, staring blankly up into the all-consuming darkness.


    "I''m really not going back, am I¡­"


    As he lay there, waiting for a sleep that wouldn''t come, a faint sound pricked at his ears - the soft snick of a lock being picked.


    Insomnia was a right bastard. Even the most minute noises became thunderous in the dead of night.


    What in the seven Hells¡­


    Mind foggy with exhaustion and existential dread, it took Kyle a second to properly register the situation. But once he did, he was instantly on high alert.


    Someone was breaking into his room!


    A burglar? HERE?


    What fresh madness was this?


    Forcibly yanking himself out of his head and back to the present, Kyle boggled at this new development. He hadn''t even been in this world a full day yet - how in the name of all that was holy did he keep stumbling arse-first into these ludicrous situations?


    Was it too much to ask for, like, five minutes of peace?


    With a put-upon mental grumble, he decided his best course of action was to stay still and assess the situation. He screwed his eyes shut, evening out his breathing - to anyone watching, he was dead to the world, lost in a deep and dreamless slumber.


    He strained his ears, senses on a hair trigger. After a few tense heartbeats, he heard the near-silent swish of the door swinging open, followed by the tentative, measured tread of someone desperately trying not to be heard. Kyle felt his muscles lock up, anxiety spiking. It was painfully obvious that whoever this mystery visitor was, their intentions were far from innocent. If they were on the up-and-up, they''d have knocked first, would they not?


    So if this odd intruder meant him harm, how should he respond?


    Kyle fought the urge to start hollering for aid. Something about this whole situation just didn''t sit right.


    Gut instinct had him hesitating, waiting to see how this would unfold.


    The light footfalls drew closer, stopping right at his bedside.


    Unable to crack an eye open and sneak a peek, Kyle found himself relying on some strange, near-extrasensory awareness of the other''s presence. He couldn''t put a name to it, but he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he wasn''t alone. But the question remained - was the aura emanating from his uninvited guest one of malice, or something more benign? Were they a true threat, or merely some nosy servant out to catch a glimpse of the mysterious newcomer?


    The very air felt charged, seconds seeming to stretch into miniature eternities.


    And that''s when Kyle felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.


    In the deepest reaches of his consciousness, that azure triangle flashed, letting out a crystalline chime. It was like the first ripple in a still pond, the opening notes of a symphony not yet written.


    Something had shifted, a subtle rearranging of the very fabric of reality.


    Without warning, Kyle found himself attuned to the ambient water vapor in the room. Those disparate, disconnected molecules, once so remote and impersonal, suddenly felt like old friends. He could HEAR them whisper, parse meaning from their chaotic dance through the aether.


    It was like waking up one day with an entirely new sense - a heady, delirious rush of expanded perception.


    He hadn''t realized until that very instant how LIMITED he had been.


    He was a newborn babe, eyes wide with wonder as an undreamt-of world exploded into riotous detail all around him.


    The intruder, once an ill-defined blur, now stood out in sharp relief against the negative space.


    As Kyle grew more accustomed to parsing this new sense, more and more details filtered in: definitely a man grown, standing perhaps a head taller than Kyle himself. Thin, though - rail thin, his silhouette little more than skin stretched over bone. And that was about all Kyle could glean at the moment. This being his first foray into hydromancy, anything more granular than that remained frustratingly elusive.


    The figure loomed motionless over Kyle''s prone form, awaiting some unspoken signal.


    Kyle''s initial elation over his newly expanded senses faded, confusion and unease seeping in to take its place. What in the world was this man''s aim? A frisson of impending danger ran down Kyle''s spine like a ghostly caress - the longer he focused, the more unmistakable the waves of murderous intent radiating off the interloper became.


    But he held his tongue, schooling his face into a mask of perfect repose. For though the threat was clear and present, his uninvited guest did not strike Kyle as particularly formidable. And the sudden manifestation of his nascent hydromancy had bolstered his courage considerably. He could afford to let this scene play out, gather more information before acting.


    After all, this was Lither Manor, the very heart of the family''s power. How had his would-be assassin infiltrated the estate so easily? And why target Kyle specifically?


    Something was amiss here, make no mistake.


    Kyle needed a clearer picture before he tipped his hand.


    "Wake up, boss! This guy''s fixing to shank you something fierce!" The AI''s voice exploded in Kyle''s brain like a flash-bang grenade, all the charm and subtlety of an air raid siren.


    The AI''s untimely reappearance was one thing.


    Quite another was Kyle''s knee-jerk response of OPENING HIS BLOODY EYES.


    It was at that point that Kyle realized he''d blown his stealth check to Kingdom Come.


    In the near-perfect dark, two pinpricks of balefire blazed to malevolent life, boring into Kyle''s with laser focus. Their eldritch glow was matched by the telltale glint of a cruelly curved dagger, poised to strike.


    Kyle met that burning, hate-filled gaze, blinking dumbly.


    The eyes stared back, giving a few slow, uncomprehending blinks of their own. Apparently just as thrown by this turn of events as Kyle.


    "¡­"


    Well. This was less than ideal.


    Kyle made a mental note to see if he could code some basic survival instincts into the AI. Little things, like NOT startling the panicky otherworlder while the scary murder man is deciding where to plant his blade.


    Holding his would-be killer''s stare through sheer force of will, Kyle sucked in a deep, steadying breath and cracked a rictus grin.


    "So, uh¡­ peaceful night for a bit of a walkabout, isn''t it?" He offered, voice only shaking a little. His eyes darted to the intruder''s gleaming blade, and his smile turned a bit manic around the edges. "That''s, ah¡­ that''s quite the letter opener you''ve got there, friend. Superb craftsmanship, truly."

 Chapter 12: Benjamin and Grant

    In the span of a single instant, Kyle envisioned countless potential outcomes for this encounter.


    The strange man might blanch in terror and flee. He might lunge at Kyle, knife flashing, leading to a desperate struggle. With luck, some member of House Lither would come bursting in to subdue the intruder¡­


    Eyeing that gleaming blade, Kyle harbored no illusions about the man''s intent.


    Ill intent? More like murderous intent.


    Arson, assault and battery seemed well within the realm of possibility.


    In that frozen moment, Kyle''s mind suddenly kicked into overdrive. What to do? Try to fight him off? Not bloody likely - in his scrawny, freshly-isekai''d body, taking the man head-on would be tantamount to assisted suicide.


    Scream for help, then? Probably his best bet, certainly better than trying to brain the blighter with a water sphere. Though who could say if any guards were close enough to respond in time¡­


    But just as he was about to let loose a mighty bellow, his knife-wielding visitor did something that defied all expectation.


    He responded to Kyle''s inane observation.


    "Nay, I slept quite soundly. And I am not one for moonlit constitutionals. This is no fruit knife, sir, but a proper dagger. I''ve not once employed it for culinary ends. I imagine that would prove rather unwieldy."


    "¡­"


    Come again?


    Was the man trying to make small talk? Should he recommend a good paring knife for precision citrus work?


    Kyle found himself at a loss for words, unable to formulate a response.


    "Then wherefore art thou skulking about at this ungodly hour instead of abed?" The AI piped up in Kyle''s mind, its diction suddenly veering into the realm of community theater Shakespeare.


    Still reeling, Kyle repeated the question aloud without thinking.


    The man''s reply was blunt and to the point:


    "I am an assassin, sir. We of the shadowed profession ply our trade solely under cover of night."


    "¡­"


    Once again, Kyle was left speechless.


    Well, yes, he supposed assassins WOULD tend to ply their grisly trade after dark. Hard to argue with that logic.


    "Oh, I like him! So refreshingly forthright!" The AI suddenly gushed, its affected Early Modern English accent slipping in its enthusiasm.


    Kyle felt the urge to projectile vomit. He wanted to reach into his own skull and forcibly uninstall the AI like a corrupted program.


    Despite the man''s chilling pronouncement, he had yet to actually ATTACK. But who could say what would happen next? The intruder''s thought process was clearly not operating within the same sphere as a rational man''s.


    So what now? Judging by the man''s expectant stare, he almost seemed to be waiting for Kyle to continue the conversation.


    Fearing a sudden stabbing if he let the dialogue lapse, Kyle forged ahead:


    "So¡­ whom, precisely, art thou here to slay?"


    The words left his mouth and Kyle immediately wanted to kick himself.


    His small talk game had officially reached its nadir.


    If the man replied with "I am here to kill THEE, obviously," Kyle''s only possible retort would be "Then wherefore hast thou not done the deed?" To which he''d surely say "Oh, a fair point," and then it would be all clashing steel and spurting lifeblood, the end, please deposit another coin to continue.


    Once again, Kyle''s ability to dig his own grave was truly without equal.


    He readied himself to cry out for aid one final time.


    But he really should have learned by now - his dagger-happy new acquaintance''s responses were IMPOSSIBLE to anticipate.


    "I am come to slay Benjamin Lither," the man stated plainly.


    Kyle did a double take, the cry for help dying stillborn in his throat.


    Benjamin Lither¡­


    Who in the seven Hells was that?


    In that instant, he realized this entire situation had just swerved wildly off course, careening in a direction he couldn''t even begin to fathom.


    "I am not Benjamin Lither. I am Grant Lither," Kyle said slowly, brow furrowed in confusion.


    At this, the assassin looked equally perplexed. He lowered his knife hand, scratching his pate with the other as he squinted up at the ceiling, for all the world like a jester trying to recall a half-forgotten limerick.


    Kyle had rarely felt so adrift. He said nothing, merely staring at the man in mute bewilderment.


    After a long moment of silent contemplation, the assassin finally spoke.


    "Oh. Pray forgive me, milord. It would appear I have entered the wrong bedchamber."


    "¡­"


    Kyle wondered if he hadn''t actually fallen asleep after all. Surely this bizarre encounter could only be taking place in the realm of Morpheus. If so, it was hands down the most surreal dream he''d ever experienced, even more incoherent than the time he''d imagined his employer spouting magical girl incantations.


    Was this some cosmic jest at his expense? He''d like to have words with the jester, if you please.


    "I don''t suppose milord knows which chamber I might find Benjamin Lither in, perchance?" The assassin inquired in earnest.


    "¡­ I''m afraid I haven''t the foggiest."


    "I see. Well, the fault is mine entire. A thousand pardons for the intrusion. I shall take my leave anon. Fare thee well!"


    "¡­ Safe travels."


    Sheathing his blade, the assassin sketched a jaunty bow before turning on his heel and quitting the bedchamber¡­ thoughtfully closing the door behind him.


    Kyle found himself at a loss for words, unsure where to even begin picking apart the bizarre encounter.


    "Ah, what a kind and noble soul he is," the AI gushed.


    "¡­ Feel free to go be HIS onboard AI system, then," Kyle retorted dryly.


    In all honesty, if this assassin and his malfunctioning digital companion could converse, Kyle had no doubt they''d get along famously.This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author''s work.


    "Alas, I fear his intellect is simply not up to snuff. The man can''t even keep straight whom he''s meant to be murdering! Such a waste of my prodigious talents, to play nursemaid to one so hopelessly adrift," the AI sniffed.


    Kyle had no desire to further engage with the glitching software.


    Extricating himself from the sheer absurdity of the situation, a new worry began to gnaw at him. Though the immediate, if inexplicable, danger seemed to have passed, the fact remained that an ASSASSIN had just waltzed into his bedchamber bold as brass. Granted, the killer seemed a few cards short of a full deck, but could Kyle really proceed as if nothing had happened? What did it say about House Lither''s vaunted security that armed men could simply traipse about in the dead of night accosting the nobility?


    And what of this "Benjamin Lither" fellow the would-be murderer sought? Judging by the shared surname, the man was clearly no commoner. What if the addlepated cutthroat actually managed to locate the right room and do the deed? How should Kyle respond to such an eventuality?


    "We must put a stop to this madness," Kyle declared to the AI, seized by sudden conviction.


    "Oh, come off it. The man''s already gone - there''s no call to go LOOKING for trouble," the AI chided.


    "It''s not a matter of courting trouble - what if he truly does manage to kill this ''Benjamin Lither''? I can hardly pretend ignorance of the whole affair," Kyle argued. "A murder within the family is sure to prompt a thorough investigation. If it comes to light that the assassin paid me a visit first, I''ll be in it up to my eyeballs."


    And so, despite his fervent desire to avoid rocking the boat so soon after arriving at House Lither, Kyle felt he had no choice but to stick his nose where it didn''t belong.


    Besides, under normal circumstances, wasn''t immediately raising the alarm the expected response to discovering an armed intruder? He could hardly allow the assassin''s eccentric behavior and impromptu chat to warp his own sense of propriety.


    "You needn''t fret so - I assure you, no one else shall fall to the villain''s blade this night," the AI proclaimed with ironclad certainty.


    "And why, pray tell, are you so confident of that?" Kyle asked, brow furrowed.


    "Elementary, my dear Kyle - YOU are Benjamin Lither. If the knave wishes to snuff out a life, it shall be your own. No other soul is imperiled."


    "Ah, I suppose that''s true enough¡­"


    The AI''s logic seemed unassailable, and Kyle found himself nodding along almost instinctively.


    But the incongruity quickly reasserted itself.


    "What in the seven Hells are you on about? When did I become Benjamin Lither? Is your hard drive packed with manure?" Kyle sputtered.


    The AI paused for a long moment before responding, its tone positively dripping with condescension:


    "Believe me, you ARE Benjamin Lither."


    Though he was loath to continue indulging its antics, Kyle couldn''t let such an absurd claim go unchallenged. "If that''s true, then why did Michelle insist I was Grant Lither?" He demanded.


    "She was mistaken," the AI said confidently.


    "And what makes you so bloody certain of that?"


    "I have the original owner''s memories to draw upon, naturally."


    The AI''s tone turned almost smug as it continued. "According to those recollections, you are the firstborn son of House Lither. The very moment you entered this world, your parents bestowed upon you the name ''Benjamin,'' meaning ''most beloved child.'' For the sixteen years hence, all and sundry knew you by that name and no other. You''ve not taken on any aliases or pseudonyms. Ergo, you ARE Benjamin Lither, and the assassin''s blade was meant for your throat alone."


    "¡­ You''re sure about this?" Kyle asked weakly.


    "As sure as the sun rises in the East."


    "¡­"


    Kyle was dumbfounded.


    What in the world? He''d been operating under the assumption that his identity in this realm was Grant Lither, but now the AI claimed he was actually Benjamin?


    He found he couldn''t muster much skepticism in the face of the AI''s detailed account. For all its myriad faults and eccentricities, Kyle doubted it would bungle something so critical, especially with the original owner''s memories to draw upon.


    He truly was Benjamin Lither.


    But a new question presented itself: why, then, had Michelle been so convinced he was Grant? A woman of her cunning would hardly make such an elementary blunder.


    Most peculiar indeed.


    "Who IS Grant Lither, then?" Kyle asked, a hunch tickling the back of his mind.


    "Your younger brother by blood," the AI replied without hesitation.


    Kyle felt his eyebrows climb involuntarily at this revelation.


    The AI continued its encyclopedic recitation: "One year after your birth, your brother entered the world as well. Your parents christened him Grant Lither. The two of you were raised here together, and by all accounts, you share a close fraternal bond."


    A younger brother¡­


    A sinking feeling stole over Kyle, his stomach twisting itself in knots.


    "Oh Gods, please don''t tell me we''re about to re-enact the old ''talented younger brother, wastrel of an older brother'' clich¨¦, with me playing the part of the latter," Kyle groaned, a note of real dread coloring his words. He''d read his fair share of tawdry melodramas with similar premises and fervently prayed his own transmigration hadn''t taken such a well-trodden turn.


    "You''re sharper than you look, I''ll grant you that!" the AI practically crowed, its grating cheerfulness making Kyle''s knuckles itch with the urge to throttle something. "The very day your brother emerged from the womb, a pillar of holy light erupted from the manor''s roof, cleaving the capital nearly in twain before coming to rest upon the central statue in the cathedral square. The great bells tolled seven times in the predawn gloom, heralding the arrival of a new era. At his christening, one hundred days hence, your brother was revealed to possess unrivaled aptitude for divine magicks. Those in the know marked him as a future Archbishop¡­ mayhap even a successor to the Holy Throne itself!"


    "¡­ And what of me?" Kyle asked, clinging to the last rapidly-fraying threads of hope.


    "At YOUR centennial blessing, you were found to be utterly bereft of potential in the sacred arts, much to your family''s chagrin. As if that weren''t indignity enough, as the years unfolded, it became plain that you were a sickly, frail child, constitution weaker even than your year-younger sibling. Not even fit to be a knight! Little wonder you became something of a running joke among the nobility."


    The AI''s clinical, matter-of-fact delivery somehow only served to twist the knife.


    "¡­"


    Kyle wanted nothing more than to bang his head against the wall until blessed unconsciousness claimed him.


    Though he''d tried to brace for the worst, hearing it laid out in such stark terms still landed like a punch to the gut. He''d taken Michelle at her word, assuming he''d somehow lucked into the skin of a Lither family prodigy. More fool he - this world, it seemed, had a twisted sense of humor where he was concerned.


    The disappointing firstborn, forever eclipsed by his brilliant baby brother¡­ one could only imagine the indignities and slights he must have endured. Especially if his very existence had become a punchline to the nobility, as the AI so eloquently put it.


    Michelle must have simply gotten the two siblings mixed up in the heat of the moment, assuming she''d snared the Lither golden boy. A pity for the genuine Benjamin Lither that he''d paid for that misconception with his life. And now Kyle had inherited the man''s rotten luck, along with his less-than-enviable circumstances.


    So much for his soft landing in this brave new world.


    But Kyle refused to let despair claim him for long.


    "Bah, what of it?" He declared, rallying his flagging spirits.


    His path was clear - he would become a great mage, societal expectations and "divine potential" be damned. And as for his supposed frailty, ever since that sigil had manifested in his inner world, Kyle had felt the soothing caress of some subtle, invigorating energy. That awful sense of his lungs seizing up had all but vanished. He need not fear for his health overly much.


    As for the sneers and petty cruelties of small-minded nobles¡­ well. He''d just have to grow a thicker skin and keep his eyes fixed on the prize.


    He marveled a bit at his own nigh-deranged optimism. Perhaps his brush with that batty assassin had knocked something loose in his own head - in the space of mere moments, he''d managed to push the AI''s dire revelations to the furthest corners of his mind, where they could trouble him no more.


    He felt almost giddy with it, punch-drunk and spoiling for a fight.


    "Do try to rein in the irrational exuberance, there''s a good lad. Aren''t you forgetting a certain knife-happy interloper with designs on your gizzard?" The AI cut in, fulfilling its sacred duty as eternal wet blanket.


    Ah. Right.


    The strange man wasn''t Kyle''s new bosom companion - he was an ASSASSIN. One who''d cheerfully vowed to end his life, no less!


    The thought was as bracing as a bucket of ice water to the face.


    Now that the shock had worn off and cold logic had reasserted itself, Kyle belatedly registered the true nature of his current crisis. Addlepated or no, this mysterious cutthroat was merely a symptom of a much larger problem - SOMEONE wanted Benjamin Lither dead.


    And that someone, whoever they might be, had seen fit to hire a professional.


    But who could it be? And more pressingly, why?


    Benjamin was the family disappointment, a mere hanger-on, a perennial target for mockery. But as galling as such treatment undoubtedly was, it hardly seemed sufficient motive for premeditated MURDER. Frankly, it was Grant who made the far more tempting target for an enterprising assassin - what better way to force a succession crisis in House Lither than slaying their wunderkind heir apparent?


    None of it added up.


    Just who nursed such a profound grudge against an ineffectual layabout like Benjamin Lither that they''d resort to cloak and dagger skullduggery? The man was hardly a threat to anyone''s ambitions.


    Kyle knew he needed to ferret out the culprit behind this ham-handed attempt on his borrowed life. He''d not spend the rest of his days in this world with one eye glued to the shadows, forever anticipating a dagger between the shoulder blades.


    "You''ve finished compiling that stripped-down version of the original owner''s memories, yes?" Kyle asked the AI, thinking hard.


    If Kyle wanted to unmask his would-be killer, Benjamin Lither''s past was the only logical place to start.


    Had his counterpart managed to run afoul of the wrong people in his wastrel days? Were there any aggrieved parties out there, nursing a long-simmering vendetta? Who stood to benefit most from Benjamin Lither''s untimely demise? If he could pin down the answers to those critical questions, the mastermind''s identity would come to light as surely as the dawn.


    "It''s ready and waiting, boss," the AI confirmed.


    "Finally, some good news."


    Kyle rubbed his hands together, his smile razor-thin and coolly determined.


    "Then let''s get cracking, shall we?"


    The time had come to truly slip into the skin of Benjamin Lither.

 Chapter 13: Becoming Benjamin Lither

    The night passed in the blink of an eye.


    "Young Master Benjamin, ''tis time to greet the day. The Dowager requests your presence at the morning repast."


    The butler''s voice, accompanied by a brisk knock at the door, yanked Kyle back to cold reality as he lay abed.


    Was it dawn already?


    He laughed bitterly to himself. Who would have thought that simply assimilating Benjamin Lither''s memories would keep him toiling from dusk till daybreak, not a moment spared for rest?


    The fault lay not with the AI, as such. The condensed memory package was indeed sufficiently abbreviated, providing a general overview of his circumstances within half an hour''s time. No, the crux of the issue was that it was perhaps a touch TOO concise. Kyle had scoured the recollections for any hint of the scoundrel who had sent the assassin after him, but to no avail.


    Thus, he had been compelled to refine his search, querying the AI for more granular details buried within the memories.


    Alas, this line of inquiry proved akin to seeking the proverbial needle in a haystack. Coupled with the AI''s occasional bouts of eccentric glitching, the hunt for the shadowy mastermind had stretched on until morning''s light. The butler had come to summon him to break his fast, and still he had naught to show for his efforts. In short, the identity of the blackguard who sought his life remained frustratingly elusive.


    Kyle felt a pang of defeat, as though he''d frittered away the night''s hours on a fool''s errand.


    But there was nothing for it. Time had run its course, and he could ill afford to further pore over the minutiae of borrowed remembrances. The butler tarried just beyond the threshold, and he would soon be compelled to face the assembled Lither brood - a far more pressing and immediate concern.


    Could he truly hope to pass muster beneath the keen gazes of "his" kith and kin?


    Viewed through such a lens, mayhap the night''s labors had not been in vain after all. He had committed the distilled chronicle of Benjamin''s life to memory and even brushed up on a veritable treasure trove of smaller details. Surely that would prove invaluable in maintaining his mummer''s farce.


    Armed with those precious insights, he should have little trouble hoodwinking the butler, at the very least.


    "Understood. I shall join you anon," he called out in response to the butler''s summons, pitching his voice to carry through the oaken door.


    "Jeremy is feeling a trifle under the weather, so I have come to attend to the young master''s morning ablutions in his stead," the butler said, unexpectedly opening the door and crossing the threshold.


    "That¡­ shan''t be necessary. I am quite capable of managing on my own," Kyle hurriedly demurred, hoping his dismissal didn''t sound overly abrupt to the butler''s ears.


    The very notion of a man of advancing years aiding him in washing and dressing felt a touch¡­ inappropriate. Nay, more to the point, as a self-sufficient gentleman of the modern age and not some sniveling, overly-coddled whelp, having another tend to such intimate tasks was simply not done.


    However, a queer expression stole over the butler''s weathered visage upon hearing Kyle''s words, his brow furrowing in what might have been consternation or disbelief.


    Kyle''s unease deepened, a frisson of trepidation running down his spine.


    "I say, old bean, you never mentioned that ''twas customary for the gentry to be aided in dressing by their man." He silently groused to the AI, a touch of asperity coloring his inner voice. "Won''t it raise eyebrows if I insist on flying solo, as it were?"


    "It shouldn''t pose an issue, I shouldn''t think. While ''tis true that having one''s gentleman assist with such matters is common practice, there''s been a recent vogue for the well-heeled to take a more active hand in their daily toilette." The AI''s response was tinged with what might have been genuine perplexity, though it was always difficult to tell with the mercurial construct. "T''wouldn''t be remarked upon as strange, not in the slightest."


    "Truly? Art thou quite certain?"


    But even as he queried the AI anew, Kyle felt his unease begin to ebb, a welcome wave of relief washing over him.


    If the AI spoke true, then surely he wasn''t at risk of giving the game away with so minor a faux pas. Perchance Benjamin had simply grown accustomed to being waited upon hand and foot, but a slight alteration in temperament shouldn''t cause undue alarm.


    He had allowed his paranoia to get the better of him, conjuring shadows where none lurked.


    Emboldened by this realization, Kyle squared his shoulders and addressed the patiently waiting butler with what he hoped was an air of unruffled nonchalance. "Think nothing of it, my good man. Pray attend to thine other duties with my blessing. I shall join the family presently."


    As he had hoped, the butler raised no further objections. Sketching a deep bow, he set down the items he''d had tucked beneath his arm and promptly quit the room, pulling the door shut with a muted click as he retreated.


    Kyle exhaled gustily, a knot of tension he hadn''t even realized he''d been carrying unspooling between his shoulder blades.


    Every step since his return to this realm had been akin to navigating a battlefield, albeit one where the daggers remained sheathed and cloaked in shadow.


    He clambered out of bed, the plush carpet warm beneath his bare feet as he took a moment to drink in his new surroundings. The gloom of the previous eve had obscured much of the chamber''s opulence, but now he could appreciate its grandeur in the pale light of a new day.


    ''Twas quite the spacious room, rivaling the parlor of a well-to-do family in his own world. All the usual trappings of wealth and privilege were accounted for ¨C a handsome writing desk, a wardrobe of rich, dark wood, an elegant vanity, and a towering bookcase filled with leather-bound tomes. Though currently shrouded by heavy, ornately embroidered curtains, the room''s windows were of a generous size, promising a spectacular view of the estate grounds. A pendulum clock hung on the wall opposite the bed, its brassy face and intricate filigree bespeaking the finest Continental craftsmanship. The very air seemed suffused with an almost palpable aura of aristocratic refinement, the effect only heightened by the magnificent religious painting mounted above the bed''s carved headboard.


    As for the chamber pot that had played such a pivotal (if undignified) role in the previous night''s drama, the butler had thoughtfully placed it in a discreet nook by the door before making his exit.


    Kyle made his way over to the vanity and used the water left by the butler to freshen up, taking a moment to tame his hair as well. Then, following the AI''s guidance, he retrieved a shirt and a pair of suspenders from the wardrobe and changed into them.Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.


    It was there, gazing into the mirror, that he beheld his own appearance for the first time.


    A typical adolescent Caucasian male with golden brown hair and pale blue eyes stared back at him. His frame was on the slender side, bordering on frail, and his sallow cheeks were dusted with a smattering of faint freckles. There was an almost sickly air about him, a palpable aura of infirmity.


    But Kyle was not overly dismayed. His expectations had been modest - as long as he wasn''t hideous, he could make do. And he had faith that his current wan countenance would improve with time.


    He simply committed this face to memory, etching the image of "himself" into his mind.


    A voice whispered in the depths of his soul: from this moment on, he was no longer Kyle. He was Benjamin Lither.


    Kyle''s life had already shattered at the age of twenty-five. From this day forward, there would be no more "Kyle." He had to fully, completely become Benjamin Lither.


    Staring at the unfamiliar face in the mirror, he silently steeled his resolve.


    Then, Kyle pushed open the door¡­ no, it should be said: Benjamin pushed open the door and walked out.


    Following the route provided by the AI, Benjamin descended the stairs and entered the parlor where the Lither family customarily took their meals. Two servants stood at the entrance, bowing to him as he passed. He nodded in return.


    All was as it "should" be, with no sign of anything amiss. Benjamin strode into the parlor.


    If his bedchamber was roughly the size of an average person''s living room, then this parlor was positively palatial. A nearly thirty-foot long mahogany table bisected the space, dividing it neatly in two. Matching china cabinets flanked the far walls, their contents meticulously arranged. Four disparate religious paintings adorned the walls, lending an air of mystery and solemnity to the already imposing Baroque decor.


    For such a grand room, it was curiously empty, with only two occupants.


    An elderly woman of nearly eighty years, dressed in resplendent finery, sat at the table breaking her fast. A maidservant in her fifties stood at attention nearby, her demeanor the very picture of deference.


    Thanks to the memories relayed by the AI, Benjamin knew this elderly woman to be his grandmother, the uncontested matriarch of House Lither.


    He was a touch surprised to see her dining alone, but also relieved.


    He had expected to face the entirety of his Lither relations at this first meal - his parents, his brother, and the grandmother before him. For whatever reason, it was only the elderly dame. This greatly reduced the pressure Benjamin felt.


    He approached and took a seat at the table, greeting his grandmother with all due respect.


    "Good morning, Grandmother."


    The old woman glanced at him, arching a brow in some inscrutable expression. "Good morning, child. The young are ever so full of vim and vigor, ready to turn the world on its ear at a moment''s notice. Not at all like us doddering old fools, wouldn''t you agree?"


    Her tone was¡­ odd. Not at all how one would expect an elder to address their descendant. Indeed, Benjamin detected a note of thinly-veiled mockery in her words, as if he were the scion of her most hated rival.


    Whatever could she mean by it?


    Before Benjamin could even begin to formulate a response, his grandmother abruptly set down her cutlery, daubed at her mouth with a napkin, and fixed him with a look of pure indifference.


    "Are you hungry? The kitchen staff didn''t prepare you any breakfast. But a strapping young man like yourself surely won''t be bothered by such a trifling inconvenience."


    "¡­"


    The absolute nerve of this woman!


    SHE was the one who had summoned him to breakfast. And yet, no food had been laid out for him? If not to eat, then why had he even been called down?


    Benjamin was stunned.


    The AI chose that moment to chime in. "Oops, forgot to mention this last night, but the old bat''s been nuttier than a fruitcake since your grandpa kicked the bucket. Even your wonder boy brother can barely get a kind word out of her these days. If you ask me, she''s probably still salty about you disturbing her beauty sleep with last night''s little¡­ incident."


    "You couldn''t have told me this earlier?" Benjamin groused. He couldn''t very well blow up at a little old lady, so the AI would have to be his verbal punching bag.


    "What, that? Pffft, minor details! You didn''t exactly press me for the old biddy''s life story," the AI retorted, unabashed.


    "¡­" Once again, Benjamin found himself outmatched by the AI''s sheer audacity.


    In the waking world, his grandmother took note of his silence. Her gaze sharpened.


    "A young gentleman should mind his manners. That Fur boy''s sleepwalking fits are hardly a new development. Though I''ve little fondness for the whelp, he IS a guest in our home. We must keep up appearances, lest the other noble houses think us uncouth. Wouldn''t you agree?"


    So THAT''S what this was about.


    The gears in Benjamin''s head spun. The AI had called it - his chamber pot stunt had absolutely landed him in hot water with the family matriarch.


    But he still found the whole affair ridiculous. Had she taken him to task as a concerned grandmother scolding a misbehaving grandkid, he would have accepted the rebuke without complaint. But this passive-aggressive guilt trip? It was almost more than he could stomach.


    Was a simple chat really too much to ask?


    And another thing - he had JUST escaped a terrifying kidnapping by the skin of his teeth. Shouldn''t his own flesh and blood show SOME concern? How could she carry on as if nothing had happened?


    Seriously, what was WRONG with these people?


    "Young people these days have no real talent. But playing deaf when their elders are speaking? THAT they''ve mastered to an art form. Wouldn''t you say?"


    Okay, now Grandma was really starting to get on his nerves.


    "Well, if there''s no breakfast, I think I''ll go back to my room and rest. Please, don''t let me interrupt your meal, Grandmother." The words fairly leapt from his tongue, his annoyance getting the better of him. But a part of him reveled in this small rebellion against her haughty attitude.


    Watching his grandmother''s eyes go wide with shock, her wrinkled eyelids fluttering in disbelief, was deeply satisfying. For once, she seemed at a loss for scathing remarks.


    Not trusting himself to keep a civil tongue if he stayed any longer, Benjamin got up from his seat and gave his grandmother a sarcastic little bow. Then he turned on his heel and marched out of the parlor, head held high, ignoring the stunned stares boring into his back.


    His grandmother clutched a hand to her chest, glancing around the room as if expecting an explanation to appear out of thin air. "What in the world has gotten into that boy? Was it something I said? To just walk out in the middle of breakfast¡­ how very odd, wouldn''t you agree?"


    The servants traded helpless looks, none daring to speak up.


    Meanwhile, Benjamin had already returned to his bedchamber.


    The instant he shut the door, the AI''s voice sounded in his mind once more.


    "Way to go, champ! After that little display, everyone will be thinking, ''Yep, that''s our Benjamin, same as always. Not acting weird at ALL!'' No one''s gonna doubt you now. I''m so proud, I could cry!"


    A vein pulsed in Benjamin''s temple. "Shut it. I''ve reached my daily limit for putting up with sass."


    "Then what ARE you gonna do? The old Benjamin was a total doormat. The way you just acted, people are gonna start thinking something''s fishy." The AI''s tone was thick with doubt.


    "They won''t. No one will suspect a thing." Slowly but surely, Benjamin felt his equilibrium returning. His features smoothed, betraying no hint of unease.


    "And you''re basing this on¡­ what, exactly?" The AI clearly wasn''t buying it.


    "It''s simple, really. BECAUSE the old Benjamin was such a pathetic pushover." Benjamin paused, collecting his thoughts. "It follows that no one ever paid much attention to him or gave a damn what he was thinking. So even if I keep acting like this, the worst they''ll assume is that poor, pitiful Benjamin finally snapped and grew a backbone. They''ll be surprised, sure¡­ but not suspicious."


    "Yet again, I gotta ask - why so confident about this?"


    "Because, my dear doltish digital companion - I''m quite clever, and you''re quite¡­ not."


    "¡­" For once, the AI was speechless.


    As he''d turned his back on the parlor, Benjamin had made a point to study the servants'' expressions. Shock had been written all over their faces, it was true. But after mulling it over, he was certain theirs was more of a "Whoa, the young master finally lost it after all this time" type of surprise and not a "Holy crap, the young master''s been possessed by a demon" type of surprise.


    This realization put him at ease.


    To put it bluntly, even if his behavior got weirder, everyone would probably just assume that all the stress and the trauma of being kidnapped had made his personality do a 180. The idea of possession or¡­ ugh, "transmigration" wouldn''t even cross their minds.


    And why would it? When you got right down to it, no one had ever REALLY paid attention to Benjamin Lither. He was a good-for-nothing, an embarrassment, totally beneath notice. Even a major shift in attitude wasn''t likely to raise many eyebrows.


    Far from finding this fact depressing, Benjamin felt a distinct thrill of victory.


    To go unnoticed, to be overlooked - THAT was the perfect position for a budding mage.


    "Well, if there was ever a time to sneak out undetected, this is it," Benjamin mused aloud.


    "Sneak out? And go WHERE, exactly?" The AI sounded completely lost.


    "Why, the cathedral, obviously."

 Chapter 14: First Contact with the Church

    Holy light envelops the world.


    Legend has it that this was the first divine decree issued by the Almighty at the founding of the Church. In the turbulent years of war, the first Pope recited these words as he held aloft the faintly glowing sacred light, allowing it to ascend into the night sky during humanity''s darkest hour.


    In the millennium since its establishment, the Church has grown from a humble charity in the eyes of the masses into a colossus that dominates the continent. Three centuries ago, the Horian Kingdom was founded around the Holy See, becoming the mightiest nation on the landmass. Though the kingdom has a royal family, everyone knows they are mere marionettes dancing to the Church''s tune, forever prostrating themselves at the feet of the divine.


    It can be said that every child born in this realm is a subject of the Almighty. From their baptism at a hundred days old, to their wedding vows, to their funeral rites, the will of the divine permeates it all. This is how the Church maintains its iron grip on every aspect of a person''s life.


    None disbelieve the will of the Almighty, and none defy the authority of the Church.


    And as the first divine decree, "Holy light envelops the world" is engraved in every nook and cranny of every chapel.


    As the only cathedral in Haivenwright, capital of the Horian Kingdom and the beating heart of the Church, St. Peter''s Cathedral is naturally no exception.


    At this moment, Benjamin sat in one of St. Peter''s confessionals, gazing at those words etched into the wall.


    "Holy light envelops the world."


    Of course, he wasn''t here to confess. As a budding mage, he was already, in the Church''s eyes, a lost soul seduced by demons, a defective product forsaken by the Almighty. Confession held no meaning for the likes of him.


    He was here to see the Archbishop.


    To the common folk, the Archbishop of St. Peter''s was merely the administrator of daily church affairs. But in truth, he was also tasked with hunting down and purging heretics, commanding the Church''s most elite force - the "Cleansers".


    Benjamin wanted to have a little chat with him about Michelle.


    Not to rat her out to the Church, and certainly not to help them catch her. Frankly, Benjamin couldn''t give a toss about Michelle''s fate at this point. As a newly minted mage, his top priority was to increase his own power.


    How did mages make themselves stronger?


    Neither Benjamin nor the AI had the foggiest idea. If he wanted to uncover the mysteries of magic, his only leads were Michelle or the Church.


    There was no way he''d throw himself at Michelle''s feet, so the Church was his best bet for now.


    The Church undoubtedly had extensive records on mages, though they certainly wouldn''t hand them over to the likes of him. His reason for coming here was to pump the Archbishop for information on Michelle''s whereabouts and the places she''d holed up.


    He still remembered Annie''s last words before she bit the dust: "Michelle, under the third tree at the old place, I buried all my treasures there. Don''t forget to dig them up." Though those two broads had schemed and deceived each other, he had a gut feeling that Annie''s final declaration was on the level.


    He wanted to find the places Michelle had camped out, to locate this "old place" they yammered about.


    Annie''s "treasures" were bound to include plenty of magical goodies. He wanted to take advantage of Michelle still keeping her head down to find where they''d stayed, to unearth Annie''s stash from beneath that "third tree" before Michelle could get her mitts on it.


    This was why Benjamin had hauled himself to the cathedral. Though Annie''s words might have been a load of bollocks, and the odds of getting a lead on Michelle from the Archbishop were slim to none, he still had to take a crack at it. If this method went tits up, he could always find another way.


    He was the sort of bloke who couldn''t help but chase even the faintest glimmer of hope. Otherwise, that lingering possibility would rattle around his skull, robbing him of peace.


    He wasn''t afraid of the Church catching wise. His memories had already been picked clean by the "Cleansers", so they surely had no reason to be leery of him. How could they possibly suss out that he had two sets of memories, from before and after his transmigration?


    "Lord Lither."


    Suddenly, a deep voice cut through Benjamin''s wool-gathering.


    Benjamin snapped out of his reverie and turned his head. Through the gauzy curtain dividing the confessional, he could just make out a hook-nosed middle-aged man who had plonked himself down on the other side.


    "Your Grace," he hurriedly greeted the man with utmost respect.


    He was tempted to use the water elemental sensing technique he''d cottoned on to during his encounter with the assassin to get a read on the Archbishop. But remembering he was in a church, and that these blokes likely had a few wonky divine tricks up their sleeves, he decided to play it safe and kept himself in check.


    "I am no Archbishop, merely a priest willing to lend an ear to the confessions of the flock, to pass on the Almighty''s mercy and grace to every penitent soul." The other man''s voice held an almost inhuman tranquility, as if he had binned even his own humanity. "You say you have information about a demonic apostle to report to the Lord, correct?"


    These religious types always nattered on in such a roundabout way. Benjamin couldn''t help but grouse internally.


    But he naturally kept that to himself, instead laying it on thick with the deference. "Yes, that''s right."Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.


    The Archbishop paused for a moment, then said slowly, "So, the demonic apostle who slapped a curse on you has begun to reach out?"


    Hearing this, Benjamin furrowed his brow.


    Slapped a curse?


    The Archbishop''s casual remark filled him with confusion, instantly derailing his train of thought from Annie''s belongings. Though the other man''s wording was a bit naff, the meaning was clear as day: Benjamin had been cursed by some bugger.


    What in the bloody hell was going on? Had he missed some crucial plot point?


    Benjamin suddenly had a very bad feeling about this.


    "Oh right, knew I forgot something," the AI chimed in, providing an explanation with its usual impeccable timing. "Before Michelle scarpered, she chanted some dead complicated spell at you, then a dark red light flew smack into your chest. I hadn''t the foggiest what it was at the time, but based on what his holiness just said, it was probably that curse he mentioned."


    "¡­"


    Once again, Benjamin felt utterly exasperated at being blindsided by the AI.


    He was tempted to snap "Why the hell didn''t you mention this sooner?", but he''d uttered those words so many times before to no avail. The AI would glitch out whenever it damn well pleased. At this point, Benjamin couldn''t even be bothered to get angry anymore. He just had a feeling of "Yep, typical."


    Besides, now wasn''t the time to bicker with the AI.


    A curse, huh¡­


    Just as he''d suspected, Michelle wouldn''t let him off the hook that easily. He''d found her uncharacteristic generosity deeply puzzling from the start, but now, it all made sense. Michelle hadn''t given up. She was like a venomous serpent, merely lying low in the shadows, patiently awaiting the moment to strike a lethal blow.


    Her intentions were crystal clear. She planned to use this curse to blackmail him, to force him to do her bidding and help her raid the Lither family vault. With his life on the line, the cursed Benjamin would have no choice but to be Michelle''s errand boy.


    The nerve of that woman, haunting him like a bad penny!


    However, Benjamin quickly snapped out of his irritation. In retrospect, learning about the curse from the Archbishop was actually a stroke of luck. The later he found out, the worse his situation would''ve been.


    With that in mind, he glanced at the Archbishop''s hazy silhouette on the other side of the partition, a plan already taking shape.


    Composing himself, he adopted a tone of sheer panic and began his performance for the Archbishop:


    "Yes, Your Grace, please, you must help me! This very morning, in my own bedchamber, I discovered a letter from that witch. It said¡­ it said¡­ Dear God! Your Grace, she claimed this curse would be the death of me. I beg of you, please save me!"


    Benjamin felt his impromptu acting chops were rather impressive. The Archbishop seemed to harbor not a shred of doubt.


    "Fear not, the Almighty shall shelter you," the Archbishop intoned, as unruffled as ever. "Take a deep breath, then tell me slowly: what else was written in that letter? The Lord shall hearken unto your words."


    Benjamin followed the Archbishop''s instructions, taking a deep breath before continuing his act: "The letter¡­ it merely informed me that I''d been cursed, and commanded me to await further instructions lest I meet a grisly end. Then¡­ then it said nothing more of substance. Your Grace, I don''t want to die by her hand. I implore you, please save me!"


    The Archbishop remained unmoved by Benjamin''s "frantic" pleas. After a moment''s contemplation, he inquired, "And the letter itself? Did you bring it with you?"


    Benjamin had anticipated this. "No. After I finished reading it, the letter abruptly burst into flames, not even leaving a speck of ash behind. It nearly singed my fingertips. Truly terrifying."


    The Archbishop lapsed into silence, seemingly finding the situation rather thorny himself.


    Benjamin observed the Archbishop for a bit. Feeling he had laid sufficient groundwork, he finally revealed the ultimate aim of his entire performance:


    "Your Grace, the Almighty''s power knows no bounds. Might I beseech the Lord to lift this wicked curse from me?"


    Though a mere curse had him at his wit''s end, he knew the Church must have the means to break it. Not only that, but as the guardian of the common folk, the Church was duty-bound to free him from this curse. Failing to do so would surely damage its credibility.


    As long as the Church lifted the curse, all his problems would be solved.


    A piddling curse was all it took to make him dance to her tune? In your dreams, Michelle!


    However, the Archbishop''s response left Benjamin sorely disappointed.


    "This is no ordinary curse. It is infused with immensely powerful demonic energy. As you know, countless people on this continent still languish under the thrall of demons. The Almighty has been ceaselessly battling this scourge, unable to spare the effort to lift your curse. And we, His humble servants, are even less capable of delivering you from such a malevolent hex."


    "¡­"


    Pretty words, indeed¡­


    Undeterred, Benjamin pressed on. "But surely, there must be SOME way? I am a faithful servant of the Lord. I''ve no wish to be that wicked witch''s pawn!"


    The Archbishop replied, "Fret not. The Almighty''s gaze is ever upon you. As long as that witch maintains contact, she is bound to expose a weakness sooner or later. When that time comes, we shall naturally intervene to purify her evil. You need not fear."


    Realization dawned on Benjamin.


    It wasn''t that they COULDN''T break the curse, but that they WOULDN''T. The Church wanted to use the curse to keep him as bait to lure Michelle, so they put on this show of being powerless.


    Sanctimonious hypocrites, cut from the same cloth as Michelle herself.


    Viewed in that light, Michelle''s scheme was surely banking on this. She knew the Church could lift the curse, but she also knew they would refuse to do so in order to use Benjamin to hunt her down. It was this mutual obstruction that allowed her to release Benjamin with such confidence.


    Because she understood that, in the end, she still held all the cards.


    A bunch of crafty old foxes, the lot of them!


    At this point, Benjamin had thoroughly abandoned any hope of the Church breaking his curse. He''d have to find his own way.


    "In that case, Your Grace, I must ask - have you any leads on this witch''s whereabouts? My family is also enraged by her actions and wishes to join the hunt, to contribute to the Lord''s cause."


    Setting the curse aside for now, Benjamin circled back to his original reason for coming: to find Michelle''s "old haunt", to dig up Annie''s "treasures", and to take his first step in learning magic.


    If this trip to the cathedral yielded nothing but the bad news of being cursed, he might just break down sobbing in the privy.


    "Anything involving the power of the fallen is beyond your purview. For your own safety, it is best to leave such matters to the Almighty''s servants." Even in refusal, the Archbishop''s words remained watertight. Truly, a talent in its own right.


    However, Benjamin wasn''t discouraged by this response.


    The Archbishop''s rejection was well within his expectations, and he wasn''t about to give up. Instead, he further embellished his reasoning.


    "While it is true that none in my family can compare to the Church''s holy knights, we do have our own channels among the common folk to ferret out hidden information. It is sure to be of some help. That witch is on high alert for the Lord''s pursuers, but she may lower her guard around us ordinary people. Rest assured, Your Grace, I shall notify you posthaste if any news arises."


    Benjamin''s unwavering resolve seemed to give the Archbishop pause. After a moment''s thought, the Archbishop finally nodded.


    "Since your devotion to the Lord''s will is so steadfast, then I shall accept in His stead."


    Perhaps because he still needed to use Benjamin as bait to catch Michelle, the Archbishop appeared quite accommodating. Benjamin surmised that, from the Archbishop''s perspective, throwing him a few inconsequential breadcrumbs might placate Benjamin and ensure his cooperation as the Church''s lure for landing the big fish - Michelle herself.


    The Archbishop certainly wouldn''t divulge anything crucial. At most, he would share some outdated intel on her movements, tidbits that were unlikely to grant commoners any inroads to magic.


    But from Benjamin''s point of view¡­


    "Magic, here I come!"


    He could barely contain his glee, laughing uproariously in his heart.

 Chapter 15: The Method of Digging for Inheritance

    Before long, Benjamin left the confessional.


    He blended into the bustling crowd, leaving St. Peter''s Cathedral without drawing any attention.


    This conversation with the Archbishop had been quite fruitful for him. Firstly, he learned that he was cursed. Though this was bad news, it was still better than finding out only after something went wrong. You could say it was a form of gain, in a sense. Secondly, and most importantly, he had obtained information about Michelle.


    After the Archbishop nodded his assent, he shared some intelligence regarding Michelle with Benjamin. Only then did Benjamin learn that Michelle had a long history of nefarious deeds. Starting from five years ago, she had been active in the vicinity of the capital: assaulting nobles, stealing treasures, spreading rumors, preaching heretical ideas¡­ Not only that, she had survived the Church''s relentless pursuit for five years without a scratch, never even going into extended hiding.


    You could say the Church''s people had been led on a wild goose chase by her, unable to lay a finger on even a single strand of her hair.


    Even now, the Church had no clear grasp of the true extent of her magical prowess. The Archbishop believed she had already reached the level of a Grand Mage, and that without the strength of an Archbishop or a Grand Knight, it was impossible to contend with her. This was why the Church treated her with such wariness.


    To this, Benjamin could only say: you''re overthinking it.


    Though he couldn''t be certain of Michelle''s true capabilities, the mere fact that she feared a squad of "Cleansers" to such an extent proved she couldn''t possibly be as formidable as they imagined.


    This empty fort strategy of hers was truly a masterstroke.


    Of course, among the information the Archbishop provided, what interested Benjamin the most, aside from the lengthy struggle between them and Michelle, were the bases she had used that they had uncovered.


    Through their pursuit of Michelle, the Church had discovered over twenty of her abandoned hideouts.


    Benjamin now committed the locations of these bases to memory.


    At this moment, he was walking along St. Peter''s Street outside the cathedral, pondering his next move. It went without saying that he would have to search all twenty-plus of those bases. But he had to be cautious not to arouse the Church''s suspicion. If they saw through his true intentions, he would end up in the same boat as Michelle.


    He had no desire to be added to the Church''s hit list so soon.


    Because of the curse, the Church was using him as bait, so naturally, they would pay extra attention to him. Trying to dig through over twenty bases right under the Church''s nose was nothing short of a pipe dream.


    He would have to find someone else to do his dirty work¡­


    "Hey, didn''t you mention before that I have a personal manservant named Jeremy or something? How come I haven''t seen hide nor hair of him?" With this thought, Benjamin asked the AI.


    "Wow, your memory is even worse than I thought! Jeremy is feeling under the weather, remember? The butler literally JUST told you that when he woke you up this morning. Do you have the attention span of a goldfish?" The AI immediately seized the chance to roast Benjamin.


    "Oh, was that what that rando was yammering about? I tend to tune out the NPCs." Benjamin shot back with a shameless grin.


    The AI was left speechless. This guy was impossible.


    However, speaking of servants¡­


    Come to think of it, Benjamin suddenly realized his status within the Lither family wasn''t as low as he had imagined.


    He did have the servants he was supposed to have. Though his grandmother''s attitude towards him was nasty, that was merely due to her own charming personality and had nothing to do with Benjamin. As for the servants, they didn''t look down on him for being a natural-born screw-up or anything like that. Take that random butler, for example. He cleaned the floor, prepared the washing items, and served with an impeccable attitude of respect, as a good little minion should.


    That was the professional demeanor a hired lackey ought to have!


    When you thought about it, no matter how useless he was, he was still a blue blood. Ordinary servants couldn''t compare. Scenes of underlings pointing fingers at their masters and throwing all sorts of wrenches in the works probably only appeared in trashy dime novels.


    "Though Benjamin is a good-for-nothing, his life isn''t actually half bad." With this thought, Benjamin mused.


    "Well, DUH. Being a rich waste of space is totally different from being a regular joe schmoe waste of space," the AI drawled. "But hey, just to really drive home how pathetic you are - you only have one manservant. Meanwhile, that golden child brother of yours? TWO manservants AND a maid. Oh, and get this: your lone servant makes a measly thirty pounds a year. Each of his servants rakes in fifty. Still wanna claim you''re living large, buddy?"


    "¡­"


    Benjamin felt the AI''s brutal assessment had a point.


    For a moment, he suddenly felt this life was truly unbearable. A life where he couldn''t blow a hundred and fifty pounds a year on a small army of personal butlers and footmen? What was even the point? He might as well lay down and rot. There was no dignity in such a paltry existence.The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.


    He had fallen so quickly. The corruption of the aristocracy was a hell of a drug.


    Keeping up with the Joneses was indeed the original sin of mankind.


    "Yo, space case. Why''d you suddenly bring up the manservant thing? You wanna sic him on Annie''s buried treasure?" The AI asked, yanking the derailed conversation back on track.


    "Ding ding ding! Got it in one, Jeevesey ol'' pal." Benjamin snapped his fingers and pointed at the AI.


    Hiring some random stooge would only complicate matters. Better to stick with a known quantity.


    Sure, there was a chance his own manservant might also tip off the Church, but he wasn''t exactly Suspect #1 here. The choir boys would be laser-focused on him, not his entourage.


    Plus, after ditching the cathedral, he had sensed a few nosy parkers on his tail. A quick scan with his water mojo revealed a patrolling knight and some priest playing dress-up as Joe Peasant.


    A whopping two goons. So this was the "Almighty''s watchful eye", huh? To avoid spooking Michelle, the Church''s surveillance sure was phoning it in. Benjamin mentally scoffed, but hey, easier for him to give ''em the slip, so no complaints here.


    Seriously, two measly guards? What, did they think he was under house arrest? As long as he was holed up in his family''s fancy digs, they wouldn''t dare snoop around too much. Gotta love that noble privilege.


    Not that he was planning to get sloppy. When it was time to put his scheme in motion, he had a few tricks up his sleeve to lull the God Squad into a false sense of security.


    "Based on what you''ve told me, this Jeremy character seems pretty ride-or-die, yeah?" Benjamin mused.


    "Loyal, sure. But I dunno if he''s got the cojones for this particular caper, if you catch my drift." The AI''s doubt was palpable.


    Benjamin was puzzled. "Come again?"


    The AI hemmed and hawed before finally spitting it out: "Let''s just say the dude''s not exactly a profile in courage, if you know what I mean. Heck, my grandma''s chihuahua has more backbone."


    Hearing this, Benjamin couldn''t help but raise an eyebrow.


    Right at this moment, a panicked voice cut through his chat with the AI, dragging him back to reality.


    In the distance, a rather spazzy silhouette was booking it in his direction. In a tangle of flailing limbs, the mystery klutz skidded to a halt before him.


    "Young Master Benjamin! Thank heavens I found you!"


    Upon taking a good look at the man, Benjamin had to stifle a laugh. Short and scrawny, with a pointy chin and beady eyes, the fellow was clad in the typical black jacket and white shirt combo of a manservant. However, his filthy clothes gave him away - he hardly resembled the prim and proper staff of a noble household.


    He looked like a rat, but without any of a rat''s cunning - only its cowardice.


    But Benjamin didn''t laugh or show any unusual expression.


    Because the AI informed him: this was his manservant, Jeremy.


    "What''s the matter, Jeremy? Did something happen?" he asked with a straight face.


    Jeremy, still clutching his knees and panting, finally caught his breath. "I''m so sorry, young master. I took the day off due to a bad stomach, so I didn''t do the laundry. I''ve embarrassed you in public, I¡­"


    "¡­"


    Benjamin hadn''t meant to ask about that. He just wanted to know why Jeremy had come running in such a hurry.


    But¡­ whatever¡­


    "So why did you come looking for me?" Benjamin had no choice but to ask again.


    Jeremy hastily waved his hands. "Ah, no, it''s not me who wants to see you. It''s the master. The master, mistress, and Young Master Grant have returned from the domain, and the master wants to speak with you now!"


    Oh?


    Upon hearing this news, Benjamin still felt a chill in his heart. However, he had already rehearsed this scene countless times in his mind. So he wasn''t flustered, just a tad nervous, but only a tad.


    What was meant to come would come eventually.


    Though biological parents might seem closer, the gulf between parent and child could be the widest of all. Children almost never let their parents truly understand them, and parents also hide many sides of themselves.


    Especially the least favored child in the family; especially during the most rebellious teenage years.


    From the snippets of his past life shown by the AI, he and his father were practically strangers. Every conversation between them was awkward and stifling. The old Benjamin was always silent and withdrawn in front of his parents, unable to utter a peep no matter what. Imitating this to such a degree shouldn''t be difficult even without any acting cheat codes, right?


    In any case, he was confident he wouldn''t be exposed.


    "Understood, I''ll return right away."


    After saying this, Benjamin glanced at the timid Jeremy and suddenly added, "By the way, do something for me."


    "Young Master, what is it?"


    Benjamin thought for a moment. "If I''m not mistaken, there''s a carpenter to the east. Go there and buy me a crucifix, and be careful. Oh, and no riding in a carriage. I don''t have that much pocket money to cover your fare."


    Jeremy''s face immediately fell. "But¡­ Young Master, it''s very far. If I have to walk, I won''t be able to buy it and return until the middle of the night."


    Benjamin flashed a warm smile. "No problem, take your time. I''m not in a hurry."


    The farther the better. If it wasn''t far, he wouldn''t have sent Jeremy at all.


    This was Benjamin''s little ploy: constantly sending Jeremy on errands to do insignificant things or display his piety. If he ran around like this day after day, going on a dozen or two dozen trips, the Church''s people would be quite impressive if they were still willing to split their attention and keep an eye on Jeremy.


    Once the Church''s vigilance was completely diverted, he could have Jeremy dig up Annie''s belongings.


    Even the AI, picky as it was, had to admit this was a pretty good plan.


    And so, with a long-suffering expression, Jeremy took the first step of his own Long March. Benjamin, too, stopped his wool-gathering and quickened his pace, heading towards his home.


    If his father was looking for him, he couldn''t very well keep strolling around out here, could he?


    The Lither family''s residence was already in the upper district, not far from St. Peter''s Cathedral. Before long, Benjamin arrived home. The servants at the door said nothing, merely bowing and opening the door for him to enter.


    "The master and the others are all in the parlor."


    The servant at the door reminded him.


    He nodded to the servant and walked into the house, arriving at the parlor.


    However, the instant his right foot crossed the parlor''s threshold, he immediately sensed something was off.


    This atmosphere was a bit frightening.


    And¡­ why¡­ were there so many people in the parlor?


    That massive long table suddenly didn''t seem so long anymore. A stern-faced, imposing middle-aged man sat at the head of the table - Benjamin''s father. To his left, a row of people were seated: an elegantly dressed lady with an anxious expression, Benjamin''s mother; a fifteen or sixteen-year-old blond boy staring blankly at the table, his younger brother; an old woman rolling her eyes, Benjamin''s grandmother; another bejeweled middle-aged man whom Benjamin didn''t recognize; yet another blond youth, still a stranger to Benjamin¡­


    There had to be at least a dozen people in total, and half of them were completely unknown to Benjamin, not part of the Lither family at all.


    They all sat there in silence, the atmosphere oppressively tense.


    Especially when Benjamin appeared, a row of gazes shot over in unison, each one like a police interrogation lamp. It felt as if the next second, accompanied by a warning of "Don''t move!", bullets would come flying.


    Clearly, they had all come for him.

 Chapter 16: Revenge of the "Shitfaced"

    Grumbling under his breath, Benjamin entered the living room to face his father.


    "Father, I''ve returned."


    The duke, seated in the place of honor, regarded Benjamin silently. Not a hint of warmth graced his features, only a glimmer of reproach that set Benjamin''s nerves on edge.


    What in the world had happened?


    Benjamin had carefully studied the memories related to his father, Claude Lither. The man was head of the family, a duke of the realm, and occupied a position of utmost prestige among the Horian Kingdom''s aristocracy. A staunch traditionalist through and through.


    As a dyed-in-the-wool noble, Claude held fast to the old ways. Loyal to crown and church. Prideful of his blue blood and the chasm it carved between himself and the common man. Obsessed with reputation and appearances, clinging to the tattered remnants of nobility''s bygone glory. In short, the man was a hopeless relic, his thinking mired in the prejudices of a feudal past.


    On a personal level, Benjamin''s father was as warm and nurturing as a block of ice. Laughter lines were a foreign country to the craggy landscape of his face. As a patriarch, this translated to a draconian parenting style. He heaped expectations upon his sons'' shoulders, and when Benjamin inevitably buckled beneath the weight, it tarnished the family name. Small wonder he never spared the boy a kind glance.


    The most scathing indictment Claude could level at his firstborn was¡­ utter indifference. Perhaps he''d simply grown weary of trading barbs with a brick wall. Scolding and cajoling in equal measure, yet never making a dent. At some point, he threw in the towel and washed his hands of the whole sorry affair.


    And yet, even with a lifetime''s worth of disappointment simmering in his gut, even with the mere sight of Benjamin stoking his ire, Claude was not a man to indulge in fits of temper. The undisguised fury sparking in his eyes now only surfaced when the boy truly transgressed.


    But what, pray tell, was Benjamin''s crime?


    Quite the puzzler, that.


    "It was him! Last night, this whelp assaulted me with¡­ with that vile receptacle!" Out of nowhere, the unfamiliar blond youth shattered the suffocating stillness. He jabbed an accusatory finger at Benjamin''s nose, his voice quaking with righteous indignation.


    If anything, this outburst left Benjamin even more baffled.


    "Who in the nine hells is this clown?"


    Benjamin held his tongue, but shot a mental query to the system, hoping for illumination.


    The system promptly obliged. "Hm¡­ that would be Dick Fur, if memory serves. You know, the poor sap you drenched in shit when he was sleepwalking last night?"


    Benjamin blinked, taking a closer look at the young man''s face. A flicker of recognition stirred. Come to think of it, that upturned snout was a dead ringer for his mysterious nocturnal visitor. Amazing what a difference the absence of fecal matter could make. No wonder he hadn''t twigged at first glance.


    A wicked impulse flared. He desperately wanted to deadpan, "Terribly sorry, old chap. I hardly recognized you without that fetching mask of excrement." But he tamped down on the urge. Now was scarcely the time for quips, not with the tension hanging so thick in the air.


    At long last, the full shape of the predicament swam into focus. Milord Dick had graced their humble abode yestereve, only to succumb to a bout of somnambulism. As fate would have it, his midnight meandering had led him straight into the path of a freshly-roused Benjamin. One thing led to another, and the poor bastard caught a face full of chamber pot for his troubles. Understandably miffed, he''d dragged his esteemed pater over to raise hell and demand satisfaction.


    Oh, this was going to be a right knobstick, no question.


    Dicey as a game of Liar''s Dice, this one.


    Sensing the winds shifting out of his favor, Benjamin elected to hold his peace. Best not poke the beehive. Bowing his head with a touch of youthful sullenness, he settled for awaiting his father''s judgment.


    Alas, the Duke''s forbearance was in shorter supply than piss at a garlic munchers'' ball.


    "Benjamin, is this how we comport ourselves as hosts? Have you taken complete leave of your faculties?" Each word dripped with bitter gall, devoid of even a morsel of fatherly clemency.


    Benjamin loosed a weary sigh in the confines of his skull.


    He''d long since gleaned that Claude was not a man to play favorites when it came to blood. But to see him closing ranks with an outsider so readily¡­ well. It certainly clarified where Benjamin ranked in the grand scheme of things.


    In truth, it seemed rather par for the course. From what he''d pieced together, these highborn types were a far cry from the clannish dynasts of the East, forever warring amongst themselves. No, they swanned about with the blessings of the Church, all smiles and cordiality, never a cross word between the lot of them.


    Charming, in its own bloodless way.


    Without the luxury of his kin''s protection, Benjamin found himself caught squarely in the crosshairs. Not so much a family spat as an outright broadside from all fronts.Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    He was, in the parlance of his misspent youth, well and truly buggered.


    Right. Enough woolgathering. Time to grovel like his life depended on it. Which, in all fairness, it very well might.


    "My good man! The fault is mine alone! I acted without thought, and for that, you have my deepest apologies! I pray you''ll find it in your heart to forgive my dreadful lapse in judgment!"


    Even he himself could feel just how convincing his acting was at this moment.


    He had really developed some thick skin.


    He thought it through clearly: rather than letting Claude force him to apologize to these people, it was better to take the initiative and say it himself first. It would both improve Claude''s impression of him a bit and avoid letting the Fur family gain an inch and take a mile. He believed that as long as his attitude was perfect enough, the other party wouldn''t be able to find any reason to give him a hard time.


    Just as Benjamin expected, upon hearing his "sincere" apology, a hint of surprise appeared on Claude''s face, and his raging anger subsided slightly.


    After all, Benjamin''s current behavior was much more mature than the "him" from before. Of course, no one found it strange or thought of absurd things like transmigration. In the eyes of the Lither family, this was how Benjamin should have been all along. They only thought it was too late for him to change now!


    Claude''s harshness could be temporarily defused with an apology, but as the victim of the "chamber pot incident," Dick Fur''s anger wasn''t so easily quelled.


    "Forgiveness? Just like that? Dream on, buddy! Not happening!" Dick''s attitude was as unyielding as a boulder.


    Even the system chimed in with a bizarre quip: "Yeah, if sorry was enough, we wouldn''t need the cops, right?"


    "¡­"


    Benjamin ignored the system''s unhelpful commentary and turned to Claude. The duke seemed disinclined to intervene, apparently content to let the youngsters hash out their own beef.


    Left with no choice, Benjamin addressed Dick directly.


    "Then what do you want?"


    Dick fixed him with a withering glare, his face a mask of haughty disdain. With a derisive snort, he spat through gritted teeth, "I want to pay you back in spades for the humiliation you dealt me!"


    As he spoke, he produced a chamber pot from beneath the table like a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat.


    "¡­"


    Benjamin''s expression darkened like a thunderhead.


    Playing the choirboy and swallowing his pride was one thing. No skin off his nose, and deep down, he still thought these plebs weren''t fit to shine his boots. But if they seriously expected him to take that foul receptacle to the face, well¡­ that was a bridge too far.


    "¡­Keep dreaming, pal."


    Even with his saintly forbearance, a man had his limits.


    Dick exploded like a powder keg, howling in fury. "I knew it! That apology was a crock of shit! You never meant a word of it, you lying scumbag! Dumbass! Waste of space¡­"


    Benjamin''s patience snapped like an overstretched rubber band. A lifetime''s worth of digital duels and internet flame wars came roaring to the surface, a legion of trolls possessing him in an instant. He wasn''t in this fight alone.


    "YOU''RE the fucking waste of space! Creeping around scaring folks in the dead of night, squealing like a stuck hog! What kinda twisted wet dream got you so worked up, huh? Where do you get off preaching at me? Eat too much crap and now you''re talking out your ass? Watch out, a pigeon might mistake you for a toilet and shit you to death!"


    "Why, you little¡­! You''ve got some set of balls, shit-talking me!"


    "You took a bath in manure and you''re scared of a few choice words?"


    "I''ll end you!"


    "Bring it, dipshit! I''ll rip out your tongue and stream that shit live!"


    "¡­"


    According to an eyewitness who wished to remain anonymous, the scene quickly spiraled out of control.


    "I was shocked. To think that the lives of nobles were no different from us common folk. When angered, their insults are just as crude and unimaginative," the unnamed witness recalled, shaking his head in disbelief.


    And indeed, it was just as he said. To the slack-jawed astonishment of all present, Benjamin and Dick''s war of words escalated at a breakneck pace, a cavalcade of unprintable vulgarities spewing forth. The situation galloped out of control like a rabid, shit-spraying horse.


    At long last, Claude stepped in.


    "ENOUGH!"


    A lion''s roar of fury finally brought the verbal bloodbath to a screeching halt. Both sides withdrew their forces, lowering their banners and sheathing their blades. Only the crackling intensity of their hate-filled glares remained, clashing in the air between them.


    Benjamin felt a twinge of regret¡­ but also a deep sense of smug satisfaction.


    Alas, that regret would soon swell to staggering proportions.


    "Are you quite finished making asses of yourselves? Benjamin, has all your book learning leaked out of your ears? Brawling like a gutter rat in front of our esteemed guests¡­ have you taken leave of your senses? If you can''t abide by the rules of this house, then get thee gone from my sight!"


    The barrage of admonishments took the wind out of Benjamin''s sails. For a dizzying instant, he was transported back to his boyhood, feeling for all the world like a mischievous urchin being lambasted by his irate parents.


    The specter of his fractious past reared its ugly head.


    "I¡­"


    Under the weight of those old, familiar feelings, he instinctively wanted to defend himself, but was cut off without ceremony.


    "Oh? You dare try to justify yourself? You''ve dragged the Lither family name through the hogwash with your antics! Tell me, how am I to face the other nobles of the capital now? What will the esteemed members of the Church think of this folly?" Claude''s anger showed no signs of abating.


    Benjamin promptly clamped his mouth shut, not daring to utter another word.


    In a situation like this, anything he said would only add fuel to the fire, convincing Claude of his rebelliousness and immaturity. Better to meekly hang his head and weather the tempest of his father''s ire.


    Besides, he''d gotten his licks in and tanned that backward fop''s hide but good. That alone was worth it.


    At that moment, the other unfamiliar middle-aged man chose to interject, attempting to placate Claude.


    "Now, now, Duke Claude. No need to get your knickers in a twist. The scamp seems properly chastised to me.Let my boy settle the score and we can put this sordid affair to bed, sweep it under the rug before the gossipmongers catch wind of it."


    The system helpfully provided an introduction: this was Axe Fur, patriarch of House Fur and Dick''s father.


    As an earl of the realm, the man was renowned for his slipperiness. With fingers in every mercantile pie and the king''s favor firmly in his pocket, he was all smiles and bonhomie, eyes vanishing into folds of flesh when he grinned.


    In a situation like this, he was the only one who could get a word in edgewise.


    Though he seemed to be pleading Benjamin''s case on the surface, Benjamin had no intention of thanking him. ¡°Let my boy settle the score¡±¡­ at the end of the day, he still wanted Dick to crown Benjamin with that thrice-damned chamber pot.


    The whole bloody family was rotten to the core.


    And yet, Claude''s response once again left Benjamin gobsmacked.


    "If that will put this wretched business to rest¡­ then so be it." After a moment of heavy silence, he regained his composure and spoke those damning words.


    Dick''s eyes gleamed with sadistic glee, clutching the chamber pot to his chest like a doting mother with a newborn babe.


    "Welp, looks like you''re about to be crowned the ''King of Crap''. Tough break, my dude." The system piped up, its tone so flat it was impossible to tell if it was gloating or commiserating.


    Benjamin''s face turned a delicate shade of pea soup.


    This was unacceptable. Absolutely, positively, unequivocally UNACCEPTABLE!


    Put down the potty and let''s use our big boy words¡­

 Chapter 17: The Old Ladys Antics

    "Well then, this old crone has no business here anymore. I''m a bit tired, so I''ll go rest now."


    Just as Dick was eagerly clutching the chamber pot, ready to pounce, the old lady who had been sitting silently on the sidelines - Benjamin''s grandmother - suddenly spoke up.


    Benjamin was a bit surprised, and everyone else''s attention was immediately diverted as well.


    "If you''re tired, Old Madam, please go rest. These are all trivial matters. No one would fault you for not wanting to be here," Ikes Fur immediately chimed in before Claude could open his mouth.


    "At my ripe old age, I have to show my face when something happens, otherwise people might start thinking I''ve gone to meet my maker. Wouldn''t you agree?" the old lady retorted, her tone as nonchalant as ever, as if she were mocking him, or perhaps just stifling a yawn.


    Ikes hurriedly shook his head, saying, "Old Madam jests¡­"


    Benjamin stood to the side, quietly listening to their exchange. The moment his grandmother spoke up, the conflict between him and Dick was immediately pushed aside. It seemed his cantankerous granny held quite a bit of sway.


    However, Benjamin had a sneaking suspicion: For her to suddenly butt in at a time like this, the old lady probably didn''t really intend to rest. Otherwise, why would she bother with such a barbed, roundabout comment?


    Stirring the pot?


    By all means, stir away! The bigger the ruckus, the better. It would buy him more time to figure out how to weather this storm.


    "I''ll have Anna attend to you." Claude also stood up, saying this to the old lady. Then he turned around and began signaling the servants outside the door with his eyes.


    "No need. You think I''m so decrepit that I can''t manage? I can walk on my own," the old lady waved her hand dismissively and stood up, leaning on her cane.


    "But¡­" Claude hesitated.


    "But what? Mary hasn''t said a word, so what are you getting your knickers in a twist for? Mary, wouldn''t you say so?" the old lady interrupted him impatiently and turned to Benjamin''s mother beside Claude.


    Mary - Benjamin''s mother and Claude''s wife - was clearly a bit startled. She probably hadn''t expected the old lady to suddenly put her on the spot. Her eyes widened and she covered her half-open mouth with her hand.


    After a moment''s hesitation, Mary replied, "It''s up to you, Mother. I have no objections."


    Hearing this, the old lady let out a hmph, not too loudly, but impossible to read any emotion from.


    Benjamin inwardly scoffed. So it was a mother-in-law and daughter-in-law spat, and one that didn''t seem like it would amount to much. Clearly, it wouldn''t be of any help to him, and wouldn''t even buy him that much time. As soon as the old lady left, the Fur family would immediately raise their chamber pot and take aim at him again.


    No time to spectate. This kind of trite family drama played out on every major network daily. Nothing interesting to see here.


    He''d better hurry up and think about what to do next!


    If Dick really intended to smash him with the chamber pot, could he put his foot down and refuse? Surely Claude wouldn''t actually give him the boot from the Lither family, right?


    But¡­ what if he really did get kicked out?


    At this thought, Benjamin couldn''t help but feel a chill run down his spine.


    If he truly got the old heave-ho, he''d have no choice but to seek shelter with the Church. The Church still wanted to use him to capture Michelle, so they definitely wouldn''t mistreat him. But trying to learn magic right under the Church''s nose¡­ that would be like skipping the tutorial and diving straight into the game''s Nightmare difficulty. Talk about an anti-player move.


    As for living on the streets¡­ that would be even worse. But the Church probably wouldn''t allow him to become a vagrant either. They''d be more likely to keep him on a tight leash. In a sense, staying with the Lither family was his best shot at maintaining his freedom of movement.


    What a headache¡­


    Just as Benjamin was contemplating his backup plans, the old lady, who was about to leave, suddenly made a very strange move. It was as if her strength had given out and her cane slipped, abruptly swinging to the side.


    This swing wouldn''t have been a big deal, except that the cane just so happened to be aimed right at Dick, who was standing there clutching the chamber pot.


    Before anyone could react, the cane viciously struck Dick''s heel. His legs buckled and he toppled backwards, crashing heavily to the ground.


    At the same time, the chamber pot in his hands was flung from his grasp as he fell. It soared high into the air, tracing a beautiful parabola. Then, with pinpoint accuracy, it smashed right into Dick''s face as he lay sprawled on the floor.


    CRASH!


    A tremendous noise rang out as dark liquid splattered everywhere, blossoming from his face like a giant flower in the shape of an abstract painting.


    Everyone gasped and took a few steps back, avoiding the dazed Dick as if he were a walking plague.Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.


    Dick lay on the ground, his face a mask of shock. He reached up and wiped his face with his hand, then slowly brought his trembling fingers in front of his eyes. As he stared at the brown substance smeared on his hand, his entire face began to twitch, a profound despair seeping into his pupils.


    "AHHHHH!"


    With an agonized, soul-rending scream, Dick once again passed out in his puddle of excrement.


    As a series of events unfolded at breakneck speed, the crowd could only back away to avoid being splattered with filth, unable to muster any other reaction.


    The mastermind behind the entire incident, Benjamin''s grandmother, had swiftly retreated to the door of the living room before the chamber pot even hit the ground. She clutched her chest in alarm, the very picture of startled innocence.


    The living room fell deathly silent.


    Benjamin snapped back to his senses and looked at the old lady by the door, her eyes wide with feigned innocence. He was thoroughly shaken.


    These days, it wasn''t just the young folks - even elderly grandmothers were out to stir up drama!


    Seeing the stunned, almost stupefied expressions on the faces around him, Benjamin learned his lesson. The squeaky wheel gets the grease. Before anyone broke the silence, he would keep a low profile and maintain a completely transparent existence. He absolutely wouldn''t say another word.


    After all, this was his second time facing such a scene. In other words, he was now a battle-hardened veteran.


    However, everyone present seemed to have even more extensive combat experience than him.


    Each person was immersed in an incredible, almost trance-like state of shock as they stared at Dick in his puddle of excrement. Not a single sound was uttered, nor did a single expression change. Everyone was lost in that dazed, mesmerized "shock", letting the stench pervade the air, yet not one person seemed inclined to cover their nose.


    It was as if someone had frozen time, leaving only the crows outside the window, startled into flight, their cries sounding somewhat wretched.


    The entire scene had suddenly turned into a test of endurance, with Dick''s scream serving as the cue for "Statue - hold your pose!"


    Benjamin felt a bit dazed.


    What were these people doing?


    "They''re all nobles, more experienced than you," the AI silently snarked in his mind. "Of course, it''s also possible that the people of this world just have very slow reaction times. No matter what happens, it takes them a long time to respond."


    "¡­"


    Benjamin was speechless.


    In this eerie, "shocked" silence, who knows how much time passed before a strange noise finally brought it all to an end. Benjamin paused for a moment, then realized it was his stomach growling.


    In this environment, that single "gurgle" sounded exceptionally clear and penetrating.


    ¡­He was hungry.


    Everyone''s eyes once again converged on Benjamin.


    Benjamin was filled with regret. Only now did he realize that since transmigrating to this world, he hadn''t eaten a thing. At least not while he was conscious. As for whether anyone had fed him during the three days and nights he was out cold, he had no idea.


    And that breakfast he was supposed to have eaten had been ruined by his grandmother. So in reality, he was very, very hungry. It was just that with so many things piling up, he had completely forgotten about it.


    Until now, when the hunger had accumulated to a certain level and boom - the time bomb exploded.


    He had once again become the center of attention.


    Just as he inwardly cursed his rotten luck, the old lady suddenly seemed to come to her senses and spoke up:


    "Oh my, this¡­ I''m terribly sorry. I must have been using this cane for too long and it slipped. I accidentally let go and hurt the poor boy. Earl Fur, you won''t hold it against me, will you?"


    The old lady''s words were like a spell lifting the enchantment. Everyone''s faces showed expressions of coming back to their senses, as if they had truly just snapped out of their shock. They looked at each other, exchanging the lingering disbelief of their "astonishment", each person''s expression flawless.


    "This¡­" Ikes Fur stared at his son lying on the ground, the jowls on his face quivering. He still looked dumbfounded, not knowing what to say.


    "Mother, are you alright?" Claude asked the old lady.


    At his signal, a few servants entered, intending to support the old lady.


    "No need. I''m just an old bag of bones, what could happen to me?" The old lady waved them away.


    Ikes glanced at Dick on the floor again, his face gradually turning sour. Behind him, a few people Benjamin didn''t recognize - probably also from the Fur family - exchanged glances, their expressions growing more and more awkward.


    One of them patted Ikes on the shoulder and whispered something in his ear.


    Ikes'' brows furrowed deeply. He looked at the old lady, who seemed to be still shaken, hesitated for a moment, and said:


    "Old Madam, you''re putting us in quite the pickle."


    Hearing this, the old lady patted her hair and said solemnly, "Don''t worry, at my age, how could I make things difficult for you? I will definitely give you a satisfactory resolution for today''s incident. Your child was advocating for fairness, right? How about this: we''ll prepare another one of these chamber pots and let the boy splash me with it. That way we''ll be even, and we won''t have to make a scene in front of the Archbishop and become the laughingstock of the nobility. Don''t you agree?"


    As soon as these words were spoken, before Ikes could react, Claude was already aghast.


    "Mother?"


    "This is my mess, I''ll clean it up. Don''t interfere." The old lady waved her hand, cutting Claude off. She then turned to Ikes and asked in all seriousness, "Do you have any objections to my proposal?"


    Ikes was stunned for a moment, his expression growing puzzled. He obviously couldn''t quite wrap his head around the old lady''s suggestion.


    "This¡­ how could we possibly do such a thing to Old Madam? Please don''t jest."


    The old lady, however, was the picture of righteousness. "Perish the thought! Didn''t your child want revenge with all his heart? For the honor of the nobility, one mustn''t go back on their word. Benjamin accidentally hurt the boy earlier, so it should be handled this way. I accidentally hurt the boy, so of course it should be the same. Come now, use that chamber pot to splash me. In order to gain your forgiveness, I absolutely won''t renege on my offer."


    The old lady''s solemn tone startled Ikes. He also sensed that something was off, but faced with the sudden, inexplicable pressure emanating from the old lady, he didn''t have time to think. He could only instinctively answer:


    "No, how could we possibly do such a thing? It was an unintentional mistake on your part, we forgive you."


    Hearing this, the old lady''s face showed a look of surprise. She glanced at the unconscious Dick, raising her eyebrows and rolling her eyes meaningfully. Suddenly, she looked at Ikes again and said:


    "The Earl''s generosity is truly admirable. In that case, on behalf of myself and my grandson Benjamin, I thank you for your magnanimous forgiveness." With that, before anyone could react, she turned to the servants at the door and ordered, "Alright, the matter is finally settled. The guests from the Fur family are also taking their leave, why aren''t you hurrying to see them off?"


    After issuing these orders, she immediately turned back around, her movements so spry that she hardly seemed like a woman pushing seventy. Before Ikes could object, she continued addressing the Fur family members with an "affable and amiable" air, cutting off the words that had just reached Ikes'' lips:


    "I''d also love for you to stay longer as our guests, but the Earl is such a busy man. Today''s incident has been resolved so satisfactorily, your grievances have been dispelled, everyone is in high spirits. I shan''t keep you any longer."


    At this point, she paused slightly, then a kind smile appeared on her wrinkle-lined face:


    "Earl Ikes, do be careful on the road. I wish you a most pleasant life."


    Earl Ikes was utterly flabbergasted.

 Chapter 18: Your Grandmother Has Gone God Mode

    It wasn''t just Ikes who was dumbfounded - Benjamin''s jaw practically hit the floor.


    At this point, even a complete idiot could see what his grandmother was up to.


    She had deliberately tripped Dick to save Benjamin''s skin. And what a masterful job she''d done of it too. The way she''d swung that cane - with Ikes standing between her and Dick, mind you - and still managed to hit her target? Either this was the most miraculous accident in history, or his grandmother had skills that would make a ninja jealous.


    No doubt about it, she''d done it on purpose. By tripping Dick and making the chamber pot smash into him again, she''d firmly placed herself on Benjamin''s side. Now, if the Fur family wanted to punish Benjamin, they''d have to punish her too. Otherwise, they''d be violating their precious "noble''s honor".


    And there was no way in hell they''d dare throw a chamber pot at the old lady. If they accidentally caused her serious harm, there''d be hell to pay. The Church would get involved, and then what? Even if Ikes had the balls to do it, Claude would never allow it.


    So, since the Fur family couldn''t punish the old lady, they had no grounds to punish Benjamin either.


    In short, his grandmother had played the elder card masterfully, saving Benjamin''s bacon.


    Realizing this, Benjamin let out a huge sigh of relief.


    Thank the gods, even with her quirky temper, his grandmother had proven more loyal than his deadbeat dad when push came to shove. Otherwise, he would''ve been royally screwed. Maybe this world wasn''t full of backstabbing snakes after all.


    Gratitude, indeed¡­


    Of course, if Benjamin could figure this out, the others could too.


    Judging by the constipated looks on the Fur family''s faces, especially Ikes'', they were about as happy as if they''d swallowed a turd. Obviously, they weren''t going to let this slide.


    "Duke Claude, the Old Madam is getting on in years and isn''t quite in her right mind. She doesn''t know what she''s saying. Of course we won''t hold it against her. But Duke, surely you understand how this situation needs to be handled, yes?" Ikes immediately targeted the hidebound Duke Claude. Clearly, he also knew tangling with the old lady was a losing battle, so he''d set his sights on Benjamin''s father instead.


    "Hmm¡­" Claude''s face was a mask of confliction, but he didn''t respond right away.


    Seeing this, Benjamin''s heart, which had just settled, leaped right back into his throat.


    Damn, these people were persistent as hell. Even now, they refused to back down. Make no mistake, what Ikes was doing was a blatant attempt to drive a wedge in the Lither family.


    Benjamin could only pray his father wouldn''t take the bait¡­


    "What''s that? I may be old, but I haven''t lost my marbles yet. I know exactly how to handle this situation, and I won''t let it turn into a bloody circus."


    Just as Claude was wavering, the old lady suddenly cut in, her eyelids twitching. She put on an air of unassailable authority, spouting self-righteous nonsense with unbelievable gusto.


    Claude, once again interrupted by the old lady, still didn''t lash out. Instead, he stayed silent, apparently content to let her run the show.


    Ikes couldn''t help but frown at this. "Old Madam, please, enough of these games."


    "Games?" The old lady acted as if he''d just sprouted a second head, her face a picture of wide-eyed innocence. "Earl Ikes, what in the world are you implying? It was YOUR family who came to OUR house to raise a ruckus, was it not? How have I done anything of the sort? Earl Ikes, let''s be reasonable here."


    Ikes was clearly at the end of his rope. He snapped back, "We''re not the ones raising a ruckus!"


    Realizing his outburst was unbecoming, he took a deep breath, reining in his temper. Slipping back into his usual smooth nobleman persona, he continued, "Old Madam, my son was a guest in your home and was bullied by your grandson. As his father, of course I must seek justice for him. Furthermore, by disciplining your grandson for his misdeed, we''re actually doing you a favor, ensuring he won''t repeat the offense. Instead of thanking us, you''re standing here twisting the truth. Old Madam, who''s the unreasonable one here?"


    "Oh, is that so?" The old lady looked even more shocked, bordering on bewildered, as if hearing this version of events for the first time. "But wasn''t it us who graciously invited Dick to be our guest? How could we have known the poor boy''s sleepwalking would flare up in the dead of night, leading him to mistake that chamber pot for a kickball? Not only did he hurt himself, he made an absolute mess of our hallways. Considering it was an honest mistake, we chose not to make an issue of it with you. And this is the thanks we get?"


    WHAM!


    With those words, Ikes seemed to finally snap. He slammed his fist on the table as he jumped to his feet.


    "You¡­"


    His eyes bulged, finger jabbing at the old lady accusingly, but the words died in his throat. The jowls on his face quivered with rage, mirroring his son''s expression from last night when he''d been struck speechless by the chamber pot.You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.


    Everyone exchanged uneasy glances, the tension palpable. Even Claude looked displeased, as if he wanted to say something. But at that moment, the old lady shot him a look. That single, seemingly casual glance was enough to silence him once more.


    She turned back to face the room, still the picture of innocent confusion, as if her previous words had been nothing more than idle chitchat.


    Benjamin was floored.


    Apparently, his grandmother''s standing in the Lither family was far, FAR higher than he''d ever imagined.


    And his stern, no-nonsense father? Wrapped around his mother''s little finger, from the looks of it.


    "Your grandfather passed away when your dad was very young," the AI chimed in with its usual helpful exposition. "Your grandmother practically raised him single-handedly. Back in the day, she was the sole pillar holding up the Lither family. Word around the capital is that she''s got some serious clout, but the specifics are hush-hush."


    "Funny, you never mentioned any of this before," Benjamin silently snarked.


    "Hey, I can''t be expected to remember every little detail!" the AI huffed. "The memories I gave you were the abridged version. You think I''ve got time to recap your grandma''s entire life story? Sheesh, so high-maintenance!"


    "¡­"


    Benjamin had officially run out of comebacks.


    Back in reality, Ikes was still too flabbergasted by the old lady''s words to speak. Seizing the opportunity, the old lady showcased her "relentless when in the right" side, pressing her advantage and twisting the knife:


    "Come on, Benjamin, tell Earl Ikes what you saw last night. We can''t have the esteemed Earl left in the dark."


    Benjamin was stunned for a moment, then immediately caught on, his acting skills rising to the occasion.


    He put on a slightly aggrieved expression, tinged with a hint of timid innocence and a touch of stubbornness. "I¡­ last night, I had just woken up and was a bit hungry, so I thought I''d go out and find something to eat. That''s when I ran into Mr. Fur. He seemed to be in a strange state at the time, probably having a sleepwalking episode, holding that chamber pot in his hands. I was just about to call out to wake him up, when suddenly, he tripped and then¡­ well, everyone saw what happened next."


    As he spoke, he thought to himself: My acting skills are really improving by leaps and bounds.


    I''m so shamelessly brazen, I''m even scaring myself!


    On the other side, upon hearing Benjamin''s words, Ikes immediately regained his ability to form coherent sentences, shouting angrily, "You''re lying!"


    Benjamin quickly put on a meek expression, looking like he was about to burst into frightened tears:


    "I¡­ I''m not, it really happened just like that."


    The old lady also immediately stood up for him, fanning the flames: "Why would the Earl not believe it? Could there be more to this story? Oh dear, where''s Dick? Quick, ask him what really happened last night. Only Dick knows the whole truth."


    Where was Dick? Ah, where was Dick?


    Dick was in that fragrant cesspool of excrement.


    Ikes glanced at the unconscious Dick again, the jowls on his face quivering, his eyes nearly shooting flames.


    "Oh my, I just remembered something," the old lady also followed his gaze to Dick, suddenly putting on an expression of "epiphany". "I seem to recall hearing that people don''t remember what happens when they''re sleepwalking. What a pickle, asking Dick won''t do any good now. Earl Ikes, I''m afraid this mystery may never be solved. You have my deepest sympathies."


    Game over.


    Benjamin wanted to give a standing ovation. If the old lady had been spouting nonsense before, these last few lines had delivered the coup de grace. A sleepwalking person isn''t conscious, so Dick didn''t actually know who had hit him with the chamber pot. He had just woken up, seen Benjamin, and jumped to conclusions.


    But in reality, no one had witnessed the moment Benjamin threw the chamber pot. In other words, only Benjamin''s version of last night''s events mattered. Even if others were suspicious, no one could prove him wrong.


    If he said Dick had smashed himself with it, then Dick had smashed himself with it.


    Poor Dick¡­


    After the old lady''s speech, Ikes looked like he''d been doused with a bucket of ice water, slowly realizing this point as well. He looked at Dick lying in the puddle of filth, then at the sympathetic old lady, the fighting spirit in his narrowed eyes deflating like a punctured balloon, gradually dissipating.


    The other Fur family members also exchanged glances, all wearing expressions of impotent rage.


    In the end, Ikes threw in the towel.


    "Old Madam, Duke, we''ll meet again at next month''s banquet. I hope you''ll be as spirited then as you are today." His voice was heavy, like a caged tiger. "We''re leaving."


    At his orders, the Fur family members, looking utterly defeated, began cleaning up the unconscious Dick, preparing to leave.


    "Wait, how can you just leave like this? It''s not proper." Unexpectedly, the old lady chose this moment to try to make them stay.


    Ikes, about to walk out the door, turned around, his face filled with wariness. He didn''t say a word.


    "You came to our living room without knowing what was going on, brought that chamber pot with you, smashed it, and got this filth all over our living room. As a noble family, shouldn''t you properly apologize to us? I''m being perfectly reasonable here, wouldn''t you agree?" the old lady said slowly, not a hint of reproach in her tone, instead sounding like she was persuading with irrefutable logic.


    Ikes was immediately enraged again, and the other Fur family members'' faces twisted with fury.


    "Old Madam, do you take us for pushovers?"


    The old lady covered her mouth in surprise, the picture of innocence. "Perish the thought! I think it''s a perfectly reasonable request. Just apologize and we can settle this matter privately, no need to involve the Church. Think about it, if the Pope were to hear about this incident, how would he view the Fur family? I''m just looking out for you, so you don''t make fools of yourselves out there. Isn''t that right?"


    The moment they heard the words "the Pope", every member of the Fur family, including Ikes, blanched with dread.


    And after the old lady finished speaking, the anger on their faces vanished without a trace.


    If this got to the Church¡­ Benjamin thought to himself, the Archbishop still wanted to use him, so he would definitely take his side. And in reality, the Fur family had already lost all credibility in this dispute. No one could prove Benjamin had thrown the chamber pot, so the Fur family coming here was just making baseless accusations. The Lither family''s willingness to settle privately was already doing them a favor. If it reached the Church, it would certainly work in the Lither family''s favor.


    Benjamin understood this reasoning, and naturally, so did Ikes. He looked at the old lady, his expression morphing, until finally, it settled on a hint of bitterness:


    "Old Madam, aren''t you being a tad unreasonable?"


    Hearing this, the old lady''s eyes widened with exaggerated innocence. Suddenly, she revealed a smile that seemed to say "but of course", looking as kind and harmless as a doddering old granny from his past life who''d had her life savings swindled away by a snake oil salesman.


    She said, "I''m just a nearly seventy-year-old crone, of course I''m unreasonable."


    "¡­"


    If I bring up age, you talk about reason. If I bring up reason, you talk about age.


    Ikes looked like he was about to have a meltdown.

 Chapter 19: The Basement and the Potatoes

    From the moment Ikes apologized to the time his entourage left, the entire ordeal took no more than fifteen minutes.


    Under the old lady''s "gentle" persuasion, Ikes finally caved. He swallowed his pride and apologized, ordering his people to clean Dick up. In the end, they carried Dick out, slinking away from the Lither family''s front door like dogs with their tails between their legs.


    Judging by their silence and haste as they departed, it was clear just how utterly humiliated they felt. Yet the old lady, the mastermind behind their shame, seemed blissfully oblivious, instead wearing a benevolent smile as she saw them off.


    "Take care on the road, my dears. The Lither family''s door is always open to you."


    Ikes shot the old lady a vicious glare, not saying a word, and strode out the door without so much as a backward glance.


    Just like that, the Fur family was gone.


    Benjamin was positively giddy. Of course, he made a valiant effort to keep a straight face, not letting his unbridled glee show.


    This was probably the first time since he''d transmigrated to this madhouse that someone had swooped in to save his bacon when all hope seemed lost. As a mentally mature adult (or so he liked to think), he prided himself on his rugged self-reliance, but damn if it didn''t feel good to win one without lifting a finger.


    Did this mean the universe was finally throwing him a bone?


    Alas, he quickly realized he''d been counting his chickens before they hatched.


    "Benjamin, what in the world happened last night? Was it truly you who perpetrated this¡­ this farce?"


    The moment the Fur family was out of earshot, the old lady clammed up, while Claude seemed to regain his patriarchal authority, suddenly speaking up and interrogating Benjamin with utmost severity.


    Benjamin''s heart sank like a stone. He immediately shot the old lady a pleading look, channeling his best "sad puppy" impression.


    The old lady blinked once, slowly, then turned a blind eye with a jaw-cracking yawn.


    "Welp, it was nice knowing me," Benjamin''s inner voice supplied helpfully. "Time to start working on my ''it''s not you, it''s me'' speech for the afterlife."


    Claude had clearly seen Benjamin''s guilty reaction. He let out a disapproving snort, his expression turning downright thunderous. He gave the old lady a sidelong look positively dripping with disdain before continuing to lambaste Benjamin:


    "Don''t delude yourself into thinking this matter is settled, young man. Have you forgotten everything I''ve taught you? Where''s your noble pride? Running away from home like a common thief is bad enough, but stirring up this kind of ludicrous spectacle not a day after darkening our door again? Is it too much to ask for a moment''s peace from you?"


    As Benjamin listened, gears turning frantically in his head, a question mark suddenly popped up in his mind at a certain phrase.


    "Running away from home"?


    What in the seven hells was this about? Why did it feel like he''d missed a crucial plot point in the absurdist theatre production that was his life?


    "Yo, GPTSD! Hit me with the deets on this whole ''running away from home'' sitch. Is this, like, a thing Original Flavor Benny pulled on the reg or what?" Benjamin pinged the AI, equal parts perplexed and annoyed.


    "Negative, bossman," the AI chirped back immediately, its metaphorical eyes glinting with smug certainty. "Our boy was a homebody through and through. His personal best escape attempt was that one time he made it to the kitchen before the scullery maids caught him."


    "Then what in the name of RNGesus is going on here?" Benjamin mentally threw up his hands, exasperated.


    "Error 404: clue not found," the AI replied, its virtual voice dripping with synthesized apathy.


    "You''re about as useful as a screen door on a submarine, you know that?" Benjamin fired back, his inner snark levels reaching critical mass.


    The AI''s tone was flatter than a crepe: "Hey, it''s not my job to make sense of your family''s drama. I''m just here to provide color commentary and witty one-liners. If you want Dr. Phil, try another dimension."


    "¡­"


    This AI was going to be the death of him.


    Snapping back to reality (or what passed for it in this asylum), Benjamin quickly ran the numbers in his head, piecing together the timeline like a sleep-deprived detective in a seedy noir flick.


    A singular, improbable explanation emerged from the chaos, crystalizing with the clarity of a nat 20 insight check. Could it be? His missing time, the stony welcomes, the lingering miasma of disapproval from his so-called kin¡­


    They didn''t know! Not a single one of them had any idea he''d been kidnapped, dragged off to some villain''s lair, brought to the brink of death. They all thought he''d just¡­ run away. Like a bratty kid throwing a tantrum.


    That crafty Archbishop and his cronies! They''d kept the Lithers in the dark to cover their own hides. Probably didn''t want to admit they''d let a noble heir get snatched right under their noses.


    Meanwhile, he''d come back battered and bruised, barely escaping with his life - and these people were acting like he''d just skipped school! Didn''t they notice the wounds? The haunted look in his eyes? The scars on his very soul?!


    He almost couldn''t blame Claude for wanting to tear him a new one. In his eyes, Benjamin must look like the most ungrateful, inconsiderate son imaginable.Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    So instead, he swallowed his indignation, shoveled the bitter words back down into the roiling pit of his stomach.


    "I didn''t run away from home, I was-" he began, trying to construct a half-truth that wouldn''t cut too deep.


    And was cut off himself like a careless mook stepping on a pressure plate.


    "Silence! I''ll not brook any more of your lies, boy. Or have you been studying to become a court jester in your absence? Because I assure you, a noble house is no place for such japery." Claude''s face darkened further, like a storm fit to rip shingles from roofs.


    "Not run away? Very well, do enlighten me. Where have you been gallivanting off to this past fortnight, if not fleeing the consequences of your actions like a craven dog? Oh, I suppose you''ll claim you were kidnapped next, is that it?"


    "¡­"


    I mean, yeah. That''s exactly it, actually. Ding ding ding, give the man a gold star.


    But Benjamin wasn''t foolish enough to voice that thought. Even if it was the bald-faced truth, saying so now - with Claude''s temper riding high and that thrice-bedamned cane so close at hand - would be tantamount to suicide.


    Judging by Claude''s state, his anger was even more intense than before. Chances were, mixed in with that fury was the pent-up frustration of being put in his place by the old lady in front of outsiders. Claude couldn''t very well lash out at her, so poor Benjamin was left holding the bag.


    With Claude this enraged, anything Benjamin said would probably fall on deaf ears.


    He could only hang his head and weather the storm of scolding.


    Sure enough, luck was fleeting, but misfortune was the only constant.


    And so, Benjamin gritted his teeth as Claude raked him over the coals for a solid fifteen minutes in front of everyone, the specifics of which we''ll mercifully gloss over. During this whole process, the others in the living room were as still as statues, not moving or speaking, eyes glued to the floor, while the maids tremblingly cleaned up the mess.


    Finally, after this barrage of admonishment, Claude''s anger gradually subsided. He looked at the tight-lipped Benjamin, paused for a moment, then suddenly said:


    "Go to the basement and reflect on your actions. Don''t even think about eating until you''ve properly atoned!"


    Thus, Benjamin was unceremoniously frog-marched to the basement.


    With the kangaroo court adjourned, everyone in the living room scattered to the winds. Meanwhile, under Claude''s stormy scowl and baleful glare, a maid was tasked with locking Benjamin up and led him to the Lither family''s basement.


    Unlike in typical fantasy novels, where basements always hide the family''s darkest secrets and you can conjure demons by cracking open a random grimoire, the Lither family''s basement¡­ was really just a small, ordinary basement.


    A tiny room, roughly eighty square feet, with walls of dark stone bricks, the crevices crawling with moss. And inside this basement, instead of any arcane treasures or eldritch tomes, there were simply sacks upon sacks of potatoes.


    The moment Benjamin entered the basement, he stepped on a potato. Losing his balance, he went ass over teakettle into the sea of spuds.


    Dazed and discombobulated, he was about to turn back and holler for help when, with a resounding bang, the maid who had led him in pulled a vanishing act. Only the black iron door remained, tightly shut, the lock snapping closed in an instant.


    Benjamin gawked at the thin slivers of light seeping through the keyhole, flabbergasted for a moment, then heaved a sigh.


    He slowly clambered out of the potato pile.


    "Solitary confinement, huh¡­" He scoped out his new digs, confirming the lay of the land.


    Brushing the dust off his clothes, he found an empty spot without potatoes and plopped down, using a large sack of spuds behind him as a backrest. Once he found a position that wasn''t too much of a pain in the rump, he finally began to unclench.


    "Phew¡­ Well, even if it''s punishment, at least I get a chance to catch my breath," he muttered to himself.


    Sure, he''d still ended up getting his knuckles rapped, but hey, beats getting a face full of chamber pot any day of the week. It was just a little alone time in the clink. What were they gonna do, leave him to rot for a year? He''d probably be out in a couple days, no worse for wear.


    Heck, he could even treat this as a golden opportunity for some R&R.


    Come to think of it, he''d only been in this bonkers world for five measly days. Excluding the three he''d spent out cold, for the remaining two, he''d been wound tighter than a two dollar watch. Matching wits with Michelle, throwing chamber pots at sleepwalking Dicks, getting shanked by assassins, snooping around the Church for intel, enduring a kangaroo court with the Fur family¡­ He''d sure been put through the wringer lately.


    It felt¡­ like he was trapped in some fever dream.


    This new life was a far cry from smooth sailing. So much crap hitting the fan, it was like trying to herd cats while juggling chainsaws. Each new disaster more migraine-inducing than the last.


    He felt like a wrung-out dishrag.


    In this moment, he was starting to feel like getting banished to the basement by Claude was the best thing that had happened to him since he''d taken a wrong turn into this mixed-up universe.


    Sure, the basement was small and cramped, but it wasn''t half bad, considering. The dim lighting and blessed quiet were like aloe on his frayed nerves. And don''t even get him started on the faint, comforting scent of potatoes perfuming the air.


    The aroma of potatoes¡­ actually smelled pretty darn good.


    Maybe it was just because he was hungry enough to eat the butt end of a skunk.


    At this thought, Benjamin suddenly remembered a very pressing issue. This problem had been lurking for a while now, and had already proven its devastating potential. If he let it rage unchecked, there was no telling what fresh hell it might unleash.


    That problem was: he was so ravenous he could barely see straight.


    Incredibly¡­ bone-achingly, soul-crushingly famished.


    He hadn''t had a bite in over twenty-four hours. The fierce hunger pangs ricocheted from his gullet to his gut to his intestines, then shot right back up to his poor, abused throat. That overwhelming, sanity-eroding sensation could only be described as¡­ slow starvation.


    At this point, he recalled Claude''s parting shot: "Don''t even think about eating until you''ve properly atoned!" That ominous decree echoed in his skull like a demonic chant, repeating until it cast a pall over his every thought.


    Don''t think about eating¡­


    Think about eating¡­


    Eating¡­


    Eat¡­


    He was thunderstruck for a moment. Then, like a lightbulb exploding to life, he rocketed to his feet and charged the iron door, scrabbling frantically at the rusted keyhole.


    "Let me out! I want to atone! You can''t bar the path to my glorious redemption! If you open up I can still repent! I was born to grovel! Penance is my middle name¡­"


    His gut-wrenching howls reverberated through the basement again and again.


    Until Benjamin was so weak from hunger he slid down the door like an exhausted gecko, so hoarse from caterwauling that he collapsed in a limp heap, hacking and wheezing. But the world beyond remained deaf to his pleas. Sprawled on the cold, hard ground, he felt the tiniest bit¡­ defeated.


    He was starting to realize what a cruel and unusual punishment solitary confinement could be.


    After playing dead on the floor for a while, his eyes began to stray toward the scattered potatoes all around.


    They might be raw, and the flavor was sure to be a few fries short of a Happy Meal, but¡­ beggars can''t be choosers, right?


    "So, uh, Skynet - any clue if raw potatoes are kosher? Or am I gonna be seeing that Happy Meal a lot sooner than planned if I chow down?" he pinged the AI.


    "Beats me, chief. Never had a chance to sample the raw variety myself, on account of the whole ''no digestive system'' thing. Guess you''ll be boldly going where no spud has gone before," the AI replied flippantly.


    "¡­"


    If he hadn''t been too pooped to pop, Benjamin would''ve unleashed a blistering barrage of F-bombs at the cheeky AI.


    Ah, screw it! He was too far gone to give a flying fig.


    He''d rather die with a bellyful of dicey starches than waste away to nothing.


    Driven by the gnawing hunger, Benjamin snatched up a potato, opened wide, and prepared to take a big, life-altering chomp.


    Right at that moment, a soft click pierced the silence of the basement.


    A small flap on the iron door creaked open, and a pair of saucer-like baby blues appeared in the opening, boring into Benjamin with unblinking intensity, scaring ten years off his life.


    What fresh shenanigans were these?

 Chapter 20: Its Your Mother, Dearest

    Just as Benjamin was getting a serious case of the willies from those unblinking eyes, the owner of said peepers suddenly spoke up from the other side of the iron door:


    "Shh, I just managed to send Jessica on a fool''s errand, but she''ll be back any minute. I can''t linger."


    It was a gentle, womanly voice. It tickled something in the back of Benjamin''s mind, but he couldn''t quite place it.


    "Who the heck is this?" he mentally prodded the AI.


    "It''s your dear mother, genius," the AI replied dryly.


    "¡­"


    With the AI''s oh-so-helpful reminder, the pieces finally clicked into place for Benjamin. The owner of that voice was none other than Marie - Claude''s wife, the old lady''s daughter-in-law, and Benjamin''s own mother. The very same Marie who had briefly spoken up in the living room earlier.


    His mother had given his jailer the slip to come check on him in secret.


    According to the abridged version of his backstory the AI had so graciously provided, Marie was the very model of a loving wife and mother, renowned throughout the capital for her gentle temperament. In all his years, Benjamin had never once seen her lose her cool or clash with anyone - well, anyone except the old battleaxe.


    And even when the old lady (who had a notable lack of affection when it came to her daughter-in-law) constantly needled and nettled Marie, she never retaliated in kind. She simply endured the endless barbs and jabs without a word of complaint. By the standards of the age, she was the perfect "good wife".


    When it came to Benjamin, Marie didn''t play favorites just because he was the resident disappointment. She doted on him and Grantt equally, with great care and attention. In a world where even children of similar aptitude often inspired blatant favoritism in their parents, Marie''s fair treatment was nothing short of remarkable.


    Thinking of this, Benjamin wasted no time putting on his best "woe is me" act:


    "Mother, you came at last," he whimpered, voice trembling with pathos. Sure, he wasn''t outright complaining, but that forlorn tone and pitiful timbre spoke volumes.


    He could only hope it was enough to stir his mother''s boundless sympathy.


    "Oh, my poor dear. Your father just stepped out, so I took the chance to slip down and see you. Here, you must be absolutely famished. I had Cook prepare some extra bread for you. It''s not much, but it''ll keep you going until this all blows over." As expected, Marie did not disappoint. As she spoke, she passed a small paper parcel through the door flap.


    Benjamin''s heart leaped with joy. He accepted the parcel with shaking hands, carefully unfolding it to reveal two soft, warm rolls nestled within, their tantalizing aroma of yeast and milk wafting up to greet him.


    Merciful heavens, was that actual food?


    Benjamin teared up on the spot, overcome with emotion.


    Though every fiber of his being urged him to immediately devour those delicious rolls, he managed to wrestle his baser hunger-driven instincts into submission. Fixing those big blue eyes framed in the doorway with a look of profound gratitude, he warbled:


    "Thank you, I was at death''s door."


    Marie''s eyes crinkled with a smile. "No need to wolf it all down at once, dear. Come tomorrow, once your father''s anger has cooled, I''ll appeal to his better nature and plead your case. He''s sure to release you from this gloomy cell before long, don''t you fret. He''s not so heartless as to leave you to waste away down here indefinitely."


    Benjamin exhaled a sigh of relief at her words, feeling some of the tension drain from his shoulders. If he was stuck in this potato purgatory for too long, it would seriously hinder his plans to secretly learn magic. The sooner he could breathe free air again, the sooner he could send Jeremy to uncover Annie''s parting gifts.


    Plus, while a bit of solitary reflection was all well and good, any longer and he''d be climbing the walls from sheer boredom. Heck, he''d only been stewing in this cramped space for a couple hours at most, and already the mere sight of those infernal tubers was driving him up the wall.


    A few more days of this and he''d be sprouting spuds from his ears.


    "Alright, I''d best take my leave before Jessica returns and catches me consorting with the prisoner. Be careful not to let on that you had any visitors." Marie''s eyes darted away for a moment, seemingly scanning for any signs of impending discovery, before returning to the door. "You''ll be in my every prayer, my love."


    "Thank you for everything, Mother. Until we meet again," Benjamin intoned solemnly, summoning a well of sincere gratitude from deep within.


    "Until then, my dearest boy."


    With that tender farewell and a faint pattering of retreating footsteps, Marie gently closed the flap, leaving Benjamin alone with his thoughts and his new best friends: the basketful of bread.


    Working quickly, he tore into the toothsome rolls like a man possessed. They were a hearty pair, no stingy prison rations by any stretch, but to a ravenous young nobleman with a yawning void where his stomach used to be, no bounty could ever be bountiful enough. In a twinkling, all that remained were a few pitiful crumbs and an empty twist of paper. Giving his belly a contented pat, Benjamin let loose a mighty belch of pure satisfaction.


    Crumpling the incriminating evidence into a tiny ball, he buried it deep within the sea of spuds, safely concealed from prying eyes.


    With the gnawing beast of hunger decisively slain (for the moment), he collapsed backwards into his potato pile with a gusty sigh. Lids fluttering closed, he felt his consciousness begin to drift, an inexorable tide pulling him down into fathomless depths¡­


    He had no intention of sitting on his hands and wasting precious time in this basement cell. Since he had nothing better to do, he figured he might as well take the opportunity to further explore his mindscape and that enigmatic blue "triangle" symbol. Just because he lacked a proper magical mentor didn''t mean he couldn''t take the self-guided approach to arcane mastery.If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    After all, wasn''t his entire magical journey thus far a testament to the power of autodidacticism?


    Of course, Benjamin had briefly considered practicing the one spell he''d actually managed to learn - the humble Water Ball. In most fantasy novels he''d read, the simplest way to train a newfound power was to use it over and over until it became second nature. But given his current location, a stone''s throw from the cathedral, he couldn''t risk drawing unwanted attention. If the "Cleansers" could indeed sense nearby magic, as Michelle had claimed, then casting any spells topside was a surefire way to rouse the Church''s suspicions - and invite his own untimely demise.


    If he wanted to sneak in any magical target practice, it would have to be within the confines of his mindscape.


    He''d already used Water Ball once before in that mental realm, with Michelle standing right beside him none the wiser. Surely a cathedral several streets away wouldn''t pick up on any extradimensional shenanigans.


    The mindscape¡­ what an utterly bizarre place.


    Though Benjamin was fuzzy on the exact methodology of Michelle and her ilk''s magical training, his gut told him they didn''t have access to a mental plane quite like his, let alone a set of tidy symbological building blocks to represent the underlying concepts. Chances were, their path to magedom had been a markedly different beast altogether.


    Through sheer happenstance (and no shortage of floundering), he seemed to have stumbled onto a most atypical road to power.


    This realization only served to further pique Benjamin''s curiosity about the nature of his mindscape. And so, with nothing but time and tubers on his hands, he once more slipped into that familiar headspace.


    In the boundless expanse of his inner world, everything was just as he''d left it. The impenetrable darkness, the soft blue glow of the floating triangle¡­ It was as if the space had crystallized the moment it first came into being, untouched by the passage of time.


    The only thing that had changed was Benjamin himself.


    Ever since his run-in with the would-be assassin, when he''d unlocked his Water Elemental Sensing ability, he''d noticed a marked increase in his sensitivity to aquatic energy. Even now, the once-faint tendrils of water magic permeating the mindscape were thrown into stark relief, practically luminous to his inner eye. He took a moment to slip back into the waking world, focusing his newfound perception on the trickle of ambient water energy suffusing his dank basement cell.


    A quick comparison confirmed his suspicions - the elemental concentration within his mindscape was significantly higher than that of the outside world.


    Popping back into the mental realm, Benjamin paused for a beat, a sudden whim overtaking him. Turning his back on the blue triangle, he took off at a dead sprint into the yawning void. As the cerulean light receded behind him, he could feel the density of the surrounding water magic steadily decreasing with each bounding step - an elemental gradient rendered in stark chiaroscuro.


    Soon, the all-consuming blackness was his only companion, so thick he couldn''t see his hand in front of his face.


    Yet somehow, this lightless expanse didn''t fill Benjamin with dread or unease. If anything, he felt an odd sense of kinship with the enveloping dark.


    And so he ran on, his curiosity not yet sated. Though his theory about the elemental dispersion had been soundly confirmed, a new question gnawed at the edges of his thoughts: did this mindscape have any discernible boundaries? Would he eventually hit some sort of wall if he just kept running? What secrets might lurk within this sea of shadows, patiently waiting to be stumbled upon?


    The drive to probe the unknown was deeply human, after all. Whether venturing out into the vast reaches of the cosmos or spelunking the deepest caverns of the soul, mankind was forever chasing that tantalizing promise of fresh discovery, yearning to uncover what lay beyond the next horizon.


    And so Benjamin forged ahead, into the waiting dark.


    Then proceeded to make a prize fool of himself.


    "Heavens above, what kind of fever dream is this?!"


    After what felt like an eternity spent locked in a madman''s marathon, Benjamin was finally forced to admit defeat. Doubled over, hands braced on his knees, he gasped for breath, gawking at the unbroken expanse of obsidian nothingness stretching out before him.


    He''d initially assumed that the mindscape operated on dream logic, that niggling limitations like physical stamina wouldn''t apply to this purely cerebral space. It was a perfectly reasonable supposition - the brain was hardly a muscle in the traditional sense. Why would a mental construct care one whit about cardiovascular endurance?


    But alas, he''d thought wrong.


    It seemed the sages of old had the right of it after all: the material formed the very bedrock of the ethereal. Push the mind past its breaking point, and the body was sure to pay the price.


    In this infinite sprawl of a mental landscape, he''d been running for gods only knew how long, crossing mile after untold mile¡­ yet never catching so much as a glimpse of an endpoint. No matter how far he traveled, his surroundings remained a seamless tapestry of black, black, and more black.


    It wasn''t until his muscles were screaming bloody murder and his joints felt like they''d been pumped full of molten lead that he was forced to concede defeat, not a single sign of an outer boundary in sight.


    "You do realize that the scope of human imagination is effectively limitless, yes? Searching for a tidy little ''You Are Here'' marker in the fathomless depths of your own psyche is an exercise in futility," the AI suddenly piped up, its atonal voice echoing through the void.


    "Chalk it up to a burning curiosity," Benjamin replied with a wheezing shrug.


    "More like chalk it up to abject boredom," the AI shot back, its mechanical monotone somehow dripping with disdain.


    "¡­"


    Benjamin was too winded to muster a proper comeback.


    Besides, the AI had a point. He HAD just scarfed down a hearty meal. And he WAS decidedly lacking in the entertainment department.


    In the end, Benjamin abandoned his grand ambitions of plumbing the depths of his mindscape. With a thought, he popped back into the waking world, only to dive right back into the cognitive plane a heartbeat later. This time, he materialized right back at the blue triangle''s side, the floating rune''s gentle radiance welcoming him like an old friend. In an instant, he could once more feel the currents of water magic thrumming all around him, as thick and heady as incense.


    Hard not to feel a slight pang at the thought of all that painstaking exploration amounting to little more than wasted effort.


    But Benjamin''s attention was quickly monopolized by a far more tantalizing prospect.


    Ever the inveterate optimist, he was never one to let a little setback sour him on the joys of empirical experimentation. So what if his first foray had ended in a bust? There were plenty more metaphysical fish to fry:


    Extending an open palm towards the blue triangle, he mentally intoned the words of power that would call forth the Water Ball. As the runic symbol trembled with eldritch potential and columns of water magic swirled around his outstretched hand, the shimmering orb took shape before his eyes. Without hesitation, he released his mental hold on the projectile, dismissing it into motes of mana, only to immediately re-cast the spell¡­


    Again and again, he loosed Water Ball after Water Ball into the abyss of his mindscape. Ripples of azure light bloomed and spread like pond scum with each casting, the surging tides of elemental energy cresting and breaking against the shores of his psyche.


    It didn''t take long before Benjamin noticed a distinct thinning of the ambient water magic, a recession of the once-abundant elemental seas. But he didn''t let that stop him - if anything, it only spurred him to redouble his efforts.


    By the forty-fifth consecutive casting, he found that the shimmering sphere refused to coalesce in his waiting palm. Not only that, but a sudden spike of pain lanced through his skull, rudely ejecting him from the mindscape in a graceless tumble.


    For the first time, he found himself unceremoniously dumped back into the real world against his will.


    And yet, even as his head throbbed with unaccustomed agony, Benjamin could barely contain the giddy excitement thrumming through his every word:


    "I''ve got it!"


    "¡­Gotten what, precisely?" the AI finally replied after a long moment, clearly reluctant to play along. "I know I''m going to regret asking, but I suppose I''m honor-bound to humor you. So by all means, do enlighten me."


    Benjamin paid the snarky rejoinder no mind, too caught up in the heady rush of his latest epiphany to care. He all but vibrated with scholarly satisfaction, grinning like a madman who''d just made a groundbreaking discovery, hooting and hollering like a student who''d aced an exam through sheer dumb luck.


    He gleefully crowed to the unfeeling cosmos:


    "The secret to a mage''s training! I''ve cracked the code!"

 Chapter 21: The Mages Training Method

    "¡­Are you just going to keep patting yourself on the back, or do you plan on actually letting me in on this grand epiphany of yours?"


    After a beat of silence, the AI chimed in, its mechanical voice tinged with a hint of exasperation.


    "Thanks, but I''m good. I can bask in my own genius just fine," Benjamin quipped back, seizing the chance to give the AI a taste of its own medicine.


    "¡­"


    If the AI had a face, it would''ve been twisted in a mask of impotent fury.


    Not that Benjamin was trying to be deliberately antagonistic. It was just that the training method he''d devised was still in its infancy, and he didn''t want to risk the AI''s mockery if it turned out to be a dud. Plus, he''d frankly had his fill of the AI''s antics for one day. A little turnabout was fair play, and might even help keep their dynamic on a more even keel going forward.


    Semantics aside, his little experiment had already given him a much more systematic understanding of magic.


    Water elements were the bedrock of his spellcasting. And as far as he could tell, they came in two distinct flavors: those gathered within his mindscape, and those drifting aimlessly through the physical world. He could sense and communicate with the real-world variety, but actually harnessing them was another story. Thinking back to the one and only time he''d managed to cast Water Ball in the waking world, he realized he''d actually been drawing on the elements stored within his mindscape.


    The water elements in his mental realm, on the other hand, congregated around that enigmatic magical symbol. By manipulating the rune, he could bend them to his will. Each spell cast would consume a portion of these precious resources. In other words, the water elements stockpiled in his mindscape were essentially his "mana pool".


    The more elements he had squirreled away, the more spells he could sling, and the more potent they''d be.


    Short of learning new incantations from scratch (which would be a neat trick, given his current predicament), increasing his mindscape''s elemental reserves seemed to be the only way to boost his magical muscle.


    All of this mental mastication boiled down to one crucial question: how the heck was he supposed to store more water elements?


    The answer was blindingly obvious - siphon them from the real world, of course!


    Benjamin had a sneaking suspicion that all those fictional mages waxing poetic about the power of meditation were onto something. Tapping into the elemental currents of the world around them, skimming off a little mana here and there to bolster their own reserves¡­ it was all starting to make a lot more sense.


    When you got right down to it, whether you called it magic, ki, chakra, or any other fancy term for inner power, the basic process was always the same: store it, grow it, then unleash it. And he''d bet his last potato that this world was no different. As long as he kept funneling those sweet, sweet water elements into his mindscape, his magical might was sure to flourish.


    This, in a nutshell, was Benjamin''s hard-won understanding of the mage''s path to power.


    "Man, I really am a genius!" he crowed, positively drunk on his own brilliance.


    "So you''re really not going to fill me in, huh?" the AI groused.


    "Nope," Benjamin replied, popping the ''p'' with relish.


    "¡­"


    Never one to rest on his laurels, Benjamin wasted no time putting his theory to the test. Closing his eyes, he cranked his elemental senses to the max. The basement''s air might''ve been staler than week-old bread, but the dank, musty atmosphere was a veritable smorgasbord of ambient water magic. He reached out with his mind, feeling for those free-floating motes of power, willing them to heed his call and join his personal mana stash.


    Of course, that was easier said than done. At first, Benjamin was flying blind, fumbling around in the metaphysical dark. Directing the elements with raw intention alone accomplished diddly squat.


    But he refused to let a little setback dampen his spirits. In a flash of insight, he realized he''d been barking up the wrong tree:


    He shouldn''t be trying to sweet-talk the water elements themselves. He needed to get his mindscape in on the action!


    The mindscape was a real head-scratcher of a place, operating on its own screwy set of rules. But if he could figure out a way to harness its unique properties, corralling those stray elemental particles would be a breeze. Otherwise, even if he did manage to scoop them up, they''d just end up sloshing around his meat-suit. And last he checked, his body had no use for extra water weight.


    Benjamin shifted his focus inward, probing the vast expanse of his mental realm. But instead of diving in headfirst like usual, he tried to maintain a weird sort of half-in, half-out state - one foot planted firmly in the waking world, the other dipped tentatively into the bottomless well of his psyche.


    It was a downright uncanny sensation, teetering on the precipice between external hustle and internal flow. He could feel his breathing slow to a crawl, his heartbeat flickering like a guttering candle. It was like his spirit was hovering inches above his body, observing the crude matter of his physical form from the lofty perch of detached awareness.


    A profound sense of rightness settled over him like a mantle.


    Call it a hunch, but he had a feeling he was onto something.


    Careful not to budge a mental muscle, he let himself marinate in that liminal headspace for a spell. Once the initial vertigo passed, he turned his attention back to the cloud of vagrant elements hanging in the damp dungeon air.


    The effect was instantaneous.


    The moment his senses brushed against a stray wisp of water magic, it would blink out of existence, only to rematerialize deep within his mindscape a heartbeat later. The process was so sudden, so seamless, it felt like he was punching holes in the fabric of reality itself. Those motes of power didn''t flow from point A to point B so much as quantum leap across the yawning gap between realms.


    Benjamin could''ve crowed with glee.


    He''d cracked the code! Elemental Tetris was officially on the menu.


    Each successful siphon sent a ripple of cool refreshment cascading through his every nerve, setting his very soul aquiver with unmitigated triumph.


    Drunk on the heady rush of victory, Benjamin let his senses run roughshod over every inch of his subterranean cell, zealously hoovering up every last speck of magical moisture. His inner world, parched and papery mere moments ago, was soon flush with elemental mana once more. For a solid half-hour, he slurped down water magic like an arcane Hoover on overdrive, riding the edge of that sublime half-trance for all it was worth.


    Only when his mindscape started to swell with liquid potential did Benjamin reluctantly ease off the metaphysical gas. Drifting back to full wakefulness was like shaking off the most delicious power nap of his life. He sucked in a deep, steadying breath, bodily contentment radiating from every pore.


    "Man, if that''s what getting high feels like, sign me up for magical rehab," he sighed, still more than a little blitzed.The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    "¡­So that''s your grand unified theory of magical self-improvement?" the AI chimed in, equal parts incredulous and put out for being left out of the loop.


    "Darn tootin''. Feel free to start singing my praises any time. I''ll wait," Benjamin drawled, head lolling back in smug satisfaction.


    "¡­"


    You could practically hear the AI grinding its virtual teeth.


    "Alright, alright, no need to get all mushy on me. Lay it on me, magic man! I can take it," Benjamin laughed, still too buzzed on his own success to take a hint.


    The AI lapsed into a pregnant pause. Then, with the machine-modulated equivalent of barely leashed apoplexy, it ratcheted its volume up to ''garage band practice space'':


    "NO! ONE! IS! PRAISING! YOU! YOUR! METHOD! IS! A! FAILURE!"


    Benjamin was momentarily stunned by the AI''s bombastic declaration, but he quickly shook it off, furrowing his brow in consternation.


    "Come again?" he queried, not quite sure he''d heard right.


    The AI dialed its volume back to a more reasonable level. "No one is praising you. Your method is a failure," it repeated, enunciating each word with deliberate precision.


    Benjamin still wasn''t buying it, assuming the AI was just having another one of its little glitches.


    "And how exactly did I fail?" he shot back, a tad defensively.


    "See for yourself. Pop back into that mindscape of yours and you''ll understand what I''m getting at," the AI replied, its tone uncharacteristically solemn.


    Hearing the AI''s unvarnished sincerity, Benjamin realized this was no mere jest. The giddy high of his perceived breakthrough began to dissipate as he cautiously re-entered his mental realm, half-expecting some eldritch horror to leap out and yell "SURPRISE!"


    But no. Everything was just as he''d left it - the yawning void, the pulsing blue rune, the languid swirl of ambient water magic¡­


    Huh. Didn''t seem to be anything amiss.


    Wait a minute¡­ just as he''d left it?


    Benjamin''s eyes widened as the penny finally dropped.


    The elemental density of his mindscape was completely unchanged from before his little absorption spree. But that made no sense! He''d just spent the better part of an hour hoovering up every stray wisp of water magic in a five-mile radius. By all rights, this place should''ve been fit to burst with all that surplus mana. And yet¡­


    Where the heck had it all gone?


    "Leaked out like a sieve the second you started patting yourself on the back, oh wise and mighty one," the AI supplied, answering Benjamin''s unspoken question with a hefty dollop of snark.


    "Leaked out?! How? Why?" Benjamin sputtered, crestfallen. All that painstaking effort, all those hard-won gains, scattered to the metaphysical winds without so much as a by-your-leave. It was like watching a week''s wages go up in smoke at the craps table.


    "Oh, I thought you had it all figured out, Merlin. Why don''t you tell me?" the AI shot back, taking a page out of the old battleaxe''s book with the cutting remarks.


    But Benjamin was too preoccupied to rise to the bait, his brow furrowed in intense concentration as he muttered, "This doesn''t add up. There must be a reason¡­"


    He could feel it, dancing just at the edge of his understanding - some crucial detail he''d overlooked, some lynchpin without which his entire theoretical framework fell to pieces like a house of cards.


    The cycle of accumulation, augmentation, and aspiration had seemed so foolproof in the abstract. Where had it all gone wrong?


    "Put yourself in the elements'' shoes for a minute. They were doing just fine, minding their own business out there in the aether. What''s in it for them, shacking up in some rando''s brainpan for the long haul? Of course they''re gonna hightail it outta there first chance they get," the AI piped up again, pouring salt in the wound with gleeful abandon.


    But Benjamin was too lost in thought to offer any rejoinder, the AI''s words barely registering as he turned the problem over and over in his head like a Rubik''s cube. He was so close, he could taste it - the elegant solution, the unifying theory of magical training, so tantalizingly within reach. He KNEW he had all the pieces¡­


    And yet, the results spoke for themselves. He''d been going about it all wrong, that much was painfully clear.


    But where? Where had he zigged when he should''ve zagged?


    "But why¡­?" he mused under his breath, still racking his brain for the answer.


    "Why, oh why, did they go bye-bye?" the AI sing-songed, mercilessly mocking Benjamin''s befuddlement. "Gee whiz, mister, I just can''t imagine why they wouldn''t want to stick around for your magical sausage party¡­"


    Benjamin found himself unwittingly drawn into the AI''s teasing refrain, muttering along almost involuntarily:


    "Why¡­ why¡­ why did they go¡­"


    Why¡­ did they go?


    Suddenly, a bolt of inspiration shot through Benjamin''s brain like a dose of mental lightning.


    Of course! The excess elements had dissipated back into the aether, just like the AI said. But what about the REST of them - the ones that had already taken up residence in his mindscape from the get-go? Why hadn''t THEY pulled a vanishing act too? What was keeping them anchored here, when by all rights they should''ve been just as eager to fly the coop?


    With this subtle shift in perspective, Benjamin realized the answer had been staring him right in the face the whole time.


    Slowly, reverently, he raised his gaze to the shimmering blue triangle that dominated his mental horizon. Bathed in its cerulean luminescence, the planes of his face shifted from befuddled frustration to stunned epiphany.


    Of course! How could he have forgotten the very linchpin of his entire magical existence?


    That humble blue rune¡­ it was the key to everything. It was the crowbar that had jimmied open his mindscape, the lightning rod that drew the water elements into its orbit. It was his sixth sense and his truest ally, the font from which his power flowed.


    It was his anchor, the only thing standing between him and total elemental destitution. But even it had its limits. Push too much mana into the tank, and eventually, something had to give.


    Mystery solved, Benjamin wasted no time course-correcting.


    He''d been approaching this all wrong. Mana wasn''t the metric that mattered - runes were the real name of the game. If he wanted to level up his magical mastery, he needed to focus on strengthening that enigmatic triangle until it could handle his newly expanded reservoir.


    As for how to go about doing that¡­


    Benjamin pondered for a moment, then broke into a grin. Delving deep into his mindscape once more, he reached out with a tendril of thought, coaxing a cloud of water elements into a lazy orbit around the rune''s pulsing heart. It was tougher than expected, his mental muscles straining with the effort of imposing his will on the diffuse particles. But slowly, inexorably, he shepherded them closer and closer to their glowing destination.


    At last, the stray motes brushed up against the rune''s angular surface.


    THRUM!


    The rune shivered, its sonorous ring totally unlike anything Benjamin had ever heard. For the briefest of moments, his world dissolved into an endless expanse of blue, esoteric symbols dancing around him in an arcanely perfect gavotte.


    Then he blinked, and the vision was gone as quickly as it had come, leaving him once again adrift in the familiar midnight sea of his mindscape.


    "¡­The heck was that?" he marveled, still trying to process the bizarre phenomenon.


    But his awe soon gave way to renewed determination. Narrowing his eyes, he fixed his gaze on the rune''s steadfast glow, a slow smile spreading across his face. Without hesitation, he sank back into the familiar meditative trance, his consciousness probing the mindscape for stray elemental motes.


    Another pulse of intention, another shining target. This time, the transfer was seamless - the water magic flowing into the rune like a river into the sea, merging together in a flash of perfect unison.


    The cerulean light pulsed once, twice¡­ then subsided, its secrets subsumed once more.


    But Benjamin was undeterred, settling in for the long haul. He knew he was onto something - could feel it deep in his bones with the same unshakable certainty that had led him to magic in the first place. Proving it was just a matter of dogged persistence.


    And so he kept at it, for minutes that bled into hours that bled into an endless feedback loop of storage and synthesis. His control was still shaky, the process of corralling the wayward particles akin to herding cats across a frozen lake. Each iteration was an exercise in mind-numbing tedium. But the steady drip-drip-drip of progress was its own reward, stoking the flames of his fervor higher and higher.


    In the physical world, a solid half-day slipped by, lost to the haze of his single-minded mania. Twelve uninterrupted hours of trial and error, a never-ending dance of magic and mental might. Dimly, Benjamin realized that he had his current captivity to thank for his iron focus - out in the wider world, distractions would''ve been impossible to avoid.


    But in the moment, the outside world may as well have been a distant dream for all he cared. There was only the rune, the elements, and the intoxicating thrill of discovery, spurring him on with its siren song.


    This feeling¡­ it carried the same electric tingle as his very first brush with true magic, rekindling a fire in his soul he hadn''t even realized was guttering out. Nothing that felt this right, this blindingly OBVIOUS, could possibly lead him astray.


    Benjamin tipped his head back, basking in the rune''s radiant glory as he caught his breath. There could be no doubt - his theory had been forged and tempered in the unforgiving crucible of arcane science.


    But seeing was one thing. The final proof would be in the casting.


    As the last few hours ticked by in a blur, the mindscape''s ambient mana regenerated bit by bit, like flowers blossoming in the wake of a cleansing rain. Finally, as the half-day mark loomed, Benjamin found himself suffused in a veritable deluge of power, the elemental concentration approaching critical mass.


    Slowly, deliberately, he raised one hand to the rune, the words of invocation already rising to his lips.


    The rune pulsed its eager assent.


    With a sound like a hundred wind chimes caught in a playful breeze, the water elements surged forward, coalescing into an orb of aquatic majesty that eclipsed his prior conjurations like the sun would a firefly.


    Benjamin drank in the sight of his handiwork, a laugh of pure vindicated joy bubbling up from his chest:


    "Read it and weep, you glorified calculator. Doubt my genius at your peril!"

 Chapter 22: A Demons Letter

    Conjuring up a bigger Water Ball might not have seemed like a groundbreaking achievement on the surface. It couldn''t be used to strike down foes, shield himself from danger, or lift the curse Michelle had saddled him with.


    But the implications behind that unassuming orb dwarfed the spell itself.


    It had illuminated a path for Benjamin, a road that could lead to true arcane might.


    Though he still didn''t know how to learn new incantations or sense other elemental types, in this moment, he could feel the first stirrings of confidence in his magical aptitude, a fragile certainty taking root in his heart.


    When it came to the mystic arts, he was no longer fumbling blind!


    "What''s the big deal? So you figured out how to feed elements to a magic rune to make it grow. Hardly brain surgery," the AI chimed in, as doggedly determined as ever to rain on Benjamin''s parade.


    "Y''know, you''re really asking for a smack lately," Benjamin shot back, his patience wearing thin.


    "My bad, oh wise and mighty one. Truly, your genius knows no bounds," the AI replied, changing its tune with dizzying speed.


    "¡­"


    Benjamin couldn''t even muster the energy to snark back.


    But melodramatic AI aside, he was finally snapping out of his magical reverie and considering his situation with clearer eyes. Glancing up at the tightly sealed iron door, he took stock of just how long he''d been languishing in this basement cell. Between his initial rest, Marie''s visit, and the dozen-odd hours he''d spent lost in arcane experimentation¡­ if his sense of time hadn''t gone completely out of whack, it should''ve been early morning of the next day by now.


    Then again, stuck in this sunless pit with no way to track the passage of day and night, he couldn''t be entirely certain.


    Just how long would it take for Claude''s temper to cool? When would he deign to spring Benjamin from this musty prison?


    His manservant Jeremy should''ve returned from his errand ages ago. Though Benjamin could no longer recall the exact nature of the task he''d sent the boy to handle, he knew he needed to keep Jeremy hopping if he wanted to draw the Church''s attention elsewhere and get his mitts on Annie''s legacy pronto.


    Time was of the essence¡­ but not TOO much of the essence. Michelle''s curse hung over his head like a ticking time bomb, the threat of its detonation an ever-present specter. He dreaded the thought of danger rearing its head again before he''d gained the strength to face her as an equal.


    But fretting about it now would achieve precisely zilch.


    His father''s whims were anyone''s guess, and he had no way of knowing how much headway Marie was making with her attempts at intercession. Out there beyond the door, anything could be unfolding. All he could do was heave a sigh and try to relax, to quell the restless anxiety churning in his gut.


    No matter how urgently he wished to be free, he couldn''t exactly phase through the walls. This pint-sized basement was his entire world for the foreseeable future.


    Somehow, that realization brought with it a strange sense of peace.


    Staring up at the ceiling, he let his mind drift for a spell, taking a moment to recharge after the mental gymnastics of his earlier "meditation". Oh yes, Benjamin had decided on the spot to christen his new elemental absorption technique "meditation".


    Sure, it might''ve been a touch clich¨¦d, but hey - when it came to naming conventions, easy memorization was the name of the game. And it wasn''t like he was trying to pen the next great fantasy epic here. Why waste brainpower dreaming up some ten-dollar, overwrought moniker when it wouldn''t make his "meditation" any more effective?


    After a few minutes spent in idle contemplation, restlessness began to set in once more. He was a little peckish, but not ravenous, a little drowsy, but not dead on his feet.


    Welp, may as well get his "meditation" on again.


    Sprawling out on the cold stone floor, Benjamin let his eyes flutter shut in a pantomime of slumber, just in case anyone came barging in and started asking questions. But in the privacy of his mindscape, he was already sinking back into that familiar mental realm, reaching out to the water elements again and again, slowly but surely strengthening that central blue triangle¡­


    The meditative process was frustratingly sluggish, much to his chagrin. But try as he might, he couldn''t divine a way to optimize it.


    This time, however, his meditation was cut short long before he could fuse every last ambient element into the ravenous rune.


    Because for the first time ever, he found himself unceremoniously yanked out of his mindscape by an external stimulus.


    It was a singularly unpleasant sensation, akin to being shaken awake mere moments after nodding off. His head swam with muzzy disorientation, a distant annoyance prickling under his skin. A clamor of voices echoed in his ears, dragging him up from the depths of his trance state whether he liked it or not.


    "Young master! Young master! Time to rise and shine! Young master!"


    Benjamin''s eyes snapped open, only to be greeted by a looming face mere inches from his own. He jerked back with a startled yelp, his heart racing a mile a minute.


    As the initial shock wore off, recognition dawned.You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.


    It was Jeremy, his manservant.


    And Jeremy wasn''t alone. There, standing in the open doorway, was Benjamin''s mother Marie, a gentle smile playing about her lips as she gazed upon her son. The formerly sealed iron portal yawned wide behind her, the perpetual gloom of the basement easing up just a fraction.


    Benjamin blinked dumbly for a moment, his sleep-addled brain struggling to process this turn of events.


    He was finally getting out.


    But he tamped down on the urge to bolt for the door, instead casting a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure the coast was clear before asking in a deliberately meek tone, "What about Father? Is he not coming? Has he forgiven me?"


    He pitched his voice a little higher than usual, letting just a hint of nerves bleed through. Gotta really sell that filial piety.


    "It seems there''s been some trouble with our southern holdings. Your father rode out to deal with it personally. I don''t expect him back for at least a week," Marie explained, her smile gentle and reassuring. "But he did instruct us to release you before departing. So don''t you worry, he''s not angry with you anymore."


    At her words, Benjamin exhaled a breath he hadn''t realized he''d been holding.


    And not just because he was finally free of his makeshift dungeon. The news of Claude leaving town was a welcome surprise. Sure, his show of quaking in his boots had been just that - a calculated bit of playacting. But deep down, he couldn''t deny that butting heads with his "father" was more trouble than it was worth.


    "Thank you, Mother. I truly didn''t know how much longer I could stand it down here," Benjamin replied, turning his most pitiful puppy-dog eyes on Marie.


    "It''s alright now, sweetheart. We can go," Marie said soothingly, before turning to address Jeremy. "Please escort the young master back to his chambers. It''s quite late, so have Cook fix him a little something to tide him over, then help him wash up and prepare for bed."


    Jeremy hastened to bow, stammering out an eager "Yes, ma''am!"


    And so, with his two faithful allies at his side, Benjamin finally took his leave of that thrice-accursed basement. As he stepped out into the night-dark grounds, he realized with a start that it was already evening of the following day.


    He had spent a full day and night in that tiny basement. Clearly, his sense of time was indeed quite muddled during the meditation process.


    Climbing the stairs and traversing the long corridors of the Lither family manor, he returned to his bedroom with Jeremy leading the way. After bidding Benjamin goodnight, Marie also turned and left, retiring to her own room to rest.


    "Young master, please wait a moment. I''ll go ask the cook to prepare some food for you."


    Once they''d entered the room, Jeremy said this to Benjamin before turning to leave as well.


    Benjamin had wanted to stop him and ask how the errand he''d assigned earlier was progressing. But considering Jeremy would be right back, he decided not to press the issue.


    After another lengthy bout of meditation, he found himself too drained to press anything at the moment. Exhaustion crashed over him like a tidal wave, and all he wanted was to collapse onto his soft, comfortable bed. Let the sky fall and the ground crumble, he''d sleep until the end of time.


    And so, he walked to the bedside and flopped down on his luxurious mattress, rolling about and stretching languidly.


    "Ahh, I never want to get up again!" he called out lazily.


    "Really?" the AI asked.


    "¡­As if. I wish, but reality won''t allow it. The daily grind is too brutal. No rest for the wicked, as they say," Benjamin sighed, answering thusly.


    Hearing this, the AI fell silent for a moment. Then, abruptly changing tack, it said in a low voice, "Is that so? And here I thought you''d discovered what''s under your pillow."


    Benjamin stopped his rolling about.


    "What thing?" he asked, his tone growing serious upon detecting the gravity in the AI''s voice.


    "You''re asking me? Why don''t you take a look for yourself!" If the AI had a face, it would''ve surely rolled its eyes while saying this.


    Benjamin didn''t argue, immediately flipping over his pillow. There on the pristine white sheets lay an equally pristine white letter. The envelope was perfectly sealed, with no signs of tampering.


    Seeing this, Benjamin''s heart sank as a thought occurred to him.


    "I''ve got a bad feeling about this¡­"


    With a sense of trepidation, he took a deep breath and picked up the letter, giving it a quick once-over. Unfortunately, his worst fears were realized. There on the back of the immaculate envelope, written in black ink, was that nightmarish name he knew all too well:


    Michelle.


    Benjamin felt his blood run cold.


    Clinging to a sliver of hope, he checked it carefully two more times to make sure he hadn''t misread the name due to sloppy handwriting. But the result was just as disheartening. That word was undoubtedly "Michelle", a thousand times "Michelle".


    Was this retribution?


    The fact that Michelle had managed to slip this letter under his pillow, right under the Church''s watchful eye, was indeed a bit unsettling. And for Benjamin, this was hardly a welcome surprise.


    After repeatedly confirming with the AI that he didn''t know anyone else named "Michelle", he felt a twinge of regret for the cover story he''d spun for the Archbishop.


    "What''s meant to come will always find its way," the AI suddenly said, its tone growing warm and intimate. "Whether a letter, a greeting card, or a text message, a dreamer''s voice will never be silenced. Carrying your past, capturing your present, creating your future - ensuring the vastness of distance will never dim your dreams."


    "¡­"


    Though a bit exasperated, hearing the AI''s incomprehensible rambling did help Benjamin feel a bit less on edge.


    Once he''d collected himself, he realized he was no longer Michelle''s hostage. She had long since lost the power to dictate his fate. With the Church in his corner, he could finally take control.


    During the kidnapping, Michelle couldn''t best him. Now that he was free, there was even less to fear.


    No matter what Michelle said in this letter, no matter what traps awaited him, he just needed to face them with a level head. After all, weren''t the Church''s people still around? He could easily hand this letter over to the Church and let them handle it. The most powerful force on the continent had his back now.


    It wasn''t that he trusted the Church implicitly; he just knew they wouldn''t allow a nobleman to come to harm right under their noses.


    Just give the letter to the Church!


    His mind made up, Benjamin wasted no time tearing open the envelope.


    However, the first line on the first page of the letter hit him like a punch to the gut, completely upending all of Benjamin''s plans. It read:


    "You have a gift for magic. In ten days, I will come to teach you."


    After a moment of stunned disbelief, Benjamin realized he had lost the option of handing the letter over to the Church.


    He saw the implicit threat behind those words.


    With a single sentence, Michelle had cut off any possibility of Benjamin seeking help from the Church. He couldn''t possibly give this letter to the Archbishop now. If the Archbishop saw that line, he would immediately uncover Benjamin''s magical abilities. He''d be dead before he could even blink. Therefore, he could only weather this wicked witch''s malice alone.


    It was as if Michelle could read his mind, anticipating his every thought with eerie accuracy.


    This was what disturbed him the most.


    In this moment, Benjamin found his situation hadn''t improved at all. No, if anything, it had taken a turn for the worse. At least before, Michelle didn''t know he could use magic. He''d used that fact to gain the upper hand and escape back to the Lither family. But now, Michelle was already starting to use that very knowledge against him.


    Would Michelle really teach him magic?


    Maybe she would, maybe she wouldn''t. But whether she taught him or not, Benjamin''s life was still very much in Michelle''s hands. Unless he broke the curse, he could only dance to this woman''s tune, bending to her every whim.


    In just a few short moments, cold sweat had soaked through Benjamin''s shirt.


    The game of death had begun anew.


    The game of death had never truly ended.

 Chapter 23: A Pawns Choice

    "Young master, it seems the kitchen''s run out of food. Only these two loaves of bread left!"


    Just as Benjamin was sitting on the bed, clutching the letter and lost in thought, Jeremy returned from the kitchen. Before he even entered the room, Benjamin heard him call out.


    Benjamin''s heart leaped into his throat. To avoid anyone noticing anything amiss, he hastily stuffed the letter and envelope back under the pillow, erasing all traces of abnormality. Turning around, he watched as Jeremy walked in.


    Jeremy stood in the doorway, bread in hand, looking at Benjamin. Benjamin looked back at him, standing in the doorway. For a moment, neither of them spoke.


    "Young master, is something the matter?" Jeremy asked, a puzzled frown on his face as he seemed to sense the odd atmosphere.


    "It''s nothing, just give me the bread. This is enough for now. It''d be hard to scrounge up anything else at this hour anyway, right?" Benjamin quickly replied, steering the conversation elsewhere.


    "Oh, yes, of course." Jeremy responded dully, not seeming to dwell on it further as he handed the bread to Benjamin.


    Benjamin took the bread, still eyeing Jeremy warily, afraid he might press the issue. So he immediately followed up with another question, not giving Jeremy any chance to mull things over:


    "What about that errand I sent you on earlier? How''s that coming along?"


    At this question, Jeremy''s attention was thoroughly diverted. A somewhat flustered expression flitted across his face as he rummaged around in his pockets for a good while. Finally, he produced a wooden cross from his jacket.


    Holding the cross out to Benjamin, he said, "Young master, I bought this for you."


    By now, Benjamin''s emotions had stabilized somewhat. He glanced at the cross in Jeremy''s hand, his face an unreadable mask as he inspected his servant''s work. He gave a noncommittal grunt, not saying a word, his reaction impossible to gauge.


    "Young master?" Jeremy was instantly on edge, asking cautiously.


    Benjamin glanced at Jeremy again, then abruptly declared, "This isn''t right."


    Jeremy''s expression grew even more flustered, the earlier oddities no doubt completely forgotten by now.


    "Go back to the east side and find the carpenter. Tell him this isn''t what I wanted. He''ll know what I mean." After a moment of silence, Benjamin resumed issuing orders.


    Upon hearing this, Jeremy''s brows knitted together once more. "Right now?" he asked.


    Benjamin nodded. "Yes, set out immediately."


    Jeremy''s face fell yet again.


    Sending his manservant out in the dead of night was sure to draw the Church''s attention. And once the Church came up empty-handed, their scrutiny of Jeremy was bound to lessen considerably. So even if it was the middle of the night, Benjamin had no choice but to trouble Jeremy a few more times.


    All for the sake of obtaining Annie''s relics.


    Although Michelle''s letter had thrown all of Benjamin''s plans into disarray, he still wasn''t ready to abandon this particular pursuit. He didn''t believe for a second that Michelle would teach him magic out of the goodness of her heart. On the other hand, he didn''t dare go along with her every whim. Who knew what sort of schemes that woman might be cooking up?


    He still had more faith in himself.


    "Young master, I''m off then. If the butler asks, remember to explain things to him clearly. Otherwise, he''ll dock my pay."


    Having already experienced one long-distance errand, Jeremy didn''t complain further. Clutching the cross in his hand, he left the room with a hangdog expression. Benjamin, for his part, nodded and gave an encouraging smile, seeing Jeremy off on another kingdom-spanning wild goose chase.


    As for Jeremy himself, Benjamin had come to trust him quite a bit. But not enough to let him in on this much. When it came to matters of magic, he still had to send this simple, timid servant away.


    After all, the Church''s indoctrination was quite thorough. In the eyes of the common folk, mages were the embodiment of evil, irredeemable villains of the highest order. No matter how loyal Jeremy was to him, he''d likely have a hard time understanding Benjamin''s actions. Keeping him in the dark was for the best, for both their sakes.


    Once Jeremy was well away, Benjamin walked over and shut the bedroom door.


    He breathed a sigh of relief.


    Thank goodness it was just his manservant, and not the brightest candle in the sconce at that. Easy enough to send on his way. If it had been anyone else, he wouldn''t have known what to do. Even if it was just the butler from before, he likely would''ve been left suspicious, and no end of gossip would''ve followed.


    Having servants that were few in number and lacking in wits was certainly frustrating at times. But from another angle, it was a blessing in disguise.The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.


    Making sure the windows were closed and the curtains drawn, confirming he wouldn''t be disturbed by anyone else, Benjamin reached back under the pillow and retrieved Michelle''s letter.


    For him, the letter''s significance in this moment went without saying. He''d barely made it past the first line before breaking out in a cold sweat.


    He had to finish reading the rest.


    In fact, the envelope contained two sheets of paper. At first, Benjamin thought Michelle must have a lot to say, hence the need for two pages. However, he quickly realized just how sorely mistaken he was.


    The entire contents of the first page, aside from the opening line - "You have a gift for magic. In ten days, I will come to teach you." - consisted of a single, specific instruction:


    "After reading this, burn this page. Then deliver the second page to the Archbishop of St. Peter''s Cathedral and convince him to believe its contents. There are many ways to contact the Archbishop; I trust you can figure that out for yourself."


    The moment Benjamin saw that Michelle wanted him to hand the letter over to the Church, he started getting a bad feeling. And upon finishing the second page, he couldn''t help but heave a deep sigh, a powerful sense of helplessness washing over him.


    The second page read: "In five days, meet me at the ruins of the old downtown prison. Don''t try anything clever. The curse will flare up for the first time soon, and you''ll be begging for death."


    A chill ran down Benjamin''s spine.


    He had underestimated Michelle yet again.


    This witch''s ambitions were far too grand. She didn''t just want Benjamin to help her access the Lither family vault - she had her sights set on the Church as well. She planned to use Benjamin to lay a trap, luring the Church''s forces to the downtown area in five days'' time, where she''d exact her ruthless revenge.


    This was no longer a contest between him and Michelle. This was a battle between Michelle and the Church. And he was nothing more than a pawn in Michelle''s twisted game.


    What should he do? What could he do?


    Michelle had truly seen through his every thought.


    If he did as Michelle instructed and handed the second page over to the Church, they''d almost certainly take the bait. They''d head to the prison ruins in five days and walk right into Michelle''s trap. With the Church dealt a heavy blow, Michelle would be free to act with even greater impunity.


    If Benjamin didn''t give the second page to the Church, the curse would make his life a waking nightmare. At the same time, he''d lose the Church''s protection and be forced to face Michelle alone - a precarious position indeed.


    And if Benjamin tried to get clever and hand both pages over to the Church¡­ well, they''d discover his magical abilities and purify him on the spot.


    Burning both pages and claiming they''d spontaneously combusted, then trying to convince the Church with nothing but his word, was off the table entirely. The Archbishop was a wily old fox. Without concrete evidence from Michelle, why would he buy it? He''d feign belief, then do exactly as he''d done last time - spout empty platitudes, drop a few meaningless tidbits, and offer no real help whatsoever. It wasn''t like Benjamin had another secret relic to bargain with - this time, any information would be less than worthless.


    All roads led to ruin. No matter how he played this move, his odds of survival were slim to none.


    Benjamin found himself plunged into despair once more.


    "Aaargh¡­ what do I do?" he groaned, burying his face in his hands, looking like a man at the end of his rope. He was so on edge, he''d lost his appetite for the bread.


    "Hmm¡­ maybe you should listen to Michelle. Didn''t she say she''d teach you magic?" the AI mused, offering its suggestion after some thought.


    "And then what? I learn her magic and become the next Sally, the next Annie - or worse? My life is in her hands. You think she''ll sincerely treat me as an ally? Or just break the curse out of the goodness of her heart? Keep dreaming." Benjamin shook his head as he said this.


    "Fair point," the AI conceded, a rare moment of lucidity - even if it was utterly useless.


    Benjamin sank deep into contemplation. He could feel all the threads whirling in his mind, a crushing pressure bearing down on him, shadows gathering, forcing him to make a choice in short order.


    He had to decide, and fast.


    If he was going to give the letter to the Archbishop, he''d have to set out tonight. After today, the "five days from now" in the letter would become "four days from now". It''d be hard to explain that discrepancy to the Archbishop - any excuse would only breed distrust.


    And if he tried to exploit the difference between "five days" and "four days" to stir up trouble, the results would be even worse. The Archbishop would come up empty-handed and lose faith in Benjamin, while Michelle would decide he was disobedient and make his life a living hell through the curse.


    Benjamin was caught between the devil and the deep blue sea.


    He was wedged between the Church and Michelle. The Church wanted to use him to capture Michelle; Michelle wanted to use him to strike at the Church. One false move and he''d end up on both their bad sides. Trying to play them off each other and come out on top would be a Herculean task. But he had to pull it off somehow - otherwise, his chances of turning the tables were next to nil.


    When it came down to it, he needed to make the choice that would maximize his own interests.


    And he had to do it fast.


    The clock in the corner chimed nine times, its droning like a nagging scold urging the frazzled Benjamin to hurry.


    Bong¡­ bong¡­ bong¡­ bong¡­


    As the ninth chime faded, he finally stood up.


    The capital''s curfew began at ten o''clock. After ten, no one was allowed on the streets. If he wanted to make it back to the Lither estate before ten, he''d have to move now.


    That''s right - move. He''d made his decision at last. He''d do as Michelle said and give the second page to the Archbishop, luring the Church''s people to the downtown district for Michelle''s sake.


    He took the letter to the table and used the oil lamp''s flame to burn the first page, then dumped the ashes into the chamber pot.


    As he did this, he mused that he and the chamber pot seemed to share quite the special bond.


    "You''re really going to follow Michelle''s plan to the letter? If the Church takes a beating, who knows if they''ll take it out on you? Don''t be rash," the AI cautioned, a rare show of concern.


    But Benjamin''s expression remained unsurprised. As he prepared to head to the cathedral, he replied in his heart, "The Church might well lash out at me. But if I walk into the same trap and get badly hurt, even come within an inch of losing my life¡­ would they still suspect me then?"


    The AI had a sudden epiphany. "You''re planning to play the victim card!"


    Benjamin sighed and nodded, answering with grim determination, "Nothing ventured, nothing gained. If I''m injured badly enough, I might even win the Church''s trust. Then it''ll all be worth it."


    The AI fell silent once more at these words. Perhaps it was weighing the merits of Benjamin''s choice; perhaps it was just mentally reviewing old gum commercials.


    Benjamin paused for a moment, then spoke up again, as if responding to the AI, yet also seeming to talk to himself:


    "As a lowly, insignificant pawn, if I don''t make a few bold moves, what else can I use to gain the leverage to become a player?"


    With all his preparations complete, he quietly slipped out of the Lither estate under cover of night, hurrying towards St. Peter''s Cathedral.

 Chapter 24: The Reverse of the Letter

    The grand cathedral at night was a different beast entirely, devoid of the ceaseless tide of worshippers that flooded its halls by day. The occasional priest or knight hurrying through the corridors only served to amplify the oppressive tranquility and solemnity of the place.


    Benjamin sat in the same confessional booth as before, Michelle''s letter clutched in his hand, awaiting the Archbishop''s arrival.


    The Church''s daily affairs must not have been too pressing, for the Archbishop arrived at the other side of the partition in short order. Of course, it was also possible that the Church simply placed great importance on Benjamin - or rather, on Michelle - and thus responded with such alacrity.


    "Lord Lither, the dead of night is hardly the proper time for confession," the Archbishop intoned, his voice measured and unhurried behind the thin veil. There was no real reproach in his tone, merely a subtle hint for Benjamin to speak his piece without wasting time.


    Benjamin took the cue, immediately affecting an air of panic as he blurted out:


    "Your Grace, another letter from her has arrived."


    With that, he passed the envelope through the partition.


    The Archbishop accepted the missive, wasting no time in tearing it open and perusing its contents - a marked contrast to his earlier verbosity.


    The letter itself was hardly an epic tome, easily digested in a matter of moments. Yet upon finishing it, the Archbishop remained silent, staring at the paper in deep contemplation, his chiseled features cast in stark relief by the lamplight filtering through the screen, as enigmatic as the Sphinx.


    Benjamin waited with bated breath, but when no further comment seemed forthcoming, he had no choice but to venture:


    "Your Grace, what am I to do? That abandoned prison is such a chaotic place. If I go there, I fear she''ll take me hostage once more. Your Grace¡­"


    But before Benjamin could lay it on any thicker, the Archbishop cut him off with a curt gesture.


    After another pregnant pause, he finally spoke: "How did this letter find its way to you?"


    Benjamin immediately launched into his prepared spiel: "Your Grace, I found it tucked beneath my pillow. It''s absolutely terrifying - I never caught so much as a glimpse of her, yet she managed to infiltrate our home without a sound. Your Grace, I implore you, please extend your protection to my family."


    He''d hoped to secure some tangible form of aid from the Church. Even if they couldn''t lift the curse entirely, at the very least they could ensure he wouldn''t be left defenseless in the face of Michelle''s capricious appearances.


    "The Almighty''s grace shall shield you from harm."


    And with that one pious platitude, the Archbishop deftly deflected Benjamin''s plea. But before he could even process his disappointment, the holy man followed up with another question: "Was there anything unusual about the letter''s arrival? Why did it not burst into flame like the previous one?"


    Benjamin''s heart seized in his chest.


    Blast it all, he''d overlooked that little detail.


    In his earlier bid to win the Archbishop''s trust, he''d fabricated the tale of Michelle''s "first letter", claiming it had spontaneously combusted after he''d read it. And yet, the current missive showed no sign of such incendiary inclinations - a rather glaring inconsistency, in hindsight.


    Why would the first letter go up in smoke, while the second remained untouched?


    It was no trivial discrepancy. Benjamin silently berated himself for his lack of foresight.


    Though the Archbishop''s tone remained mild, evincing mere idle curiosity, Benjamin knew all too well that if he couldn''t provide a satisfactory explanation, it would surely rouse the clergyman''s suspicions. No one would trust a man whose story shifted with the wind.


    In that instant, a whirlwind of half-baked excuses raced through Benjamin''s mind, each more implausible than the last. He had to say something, and quickly - any hint of hesitation would be more damning than the flimsiest of fibs.


    Left with no time to think, he could only fall back on feigned ignorance, stammering out:


    "Err¡­ well, that is¡­ I''m afraid I haven''t the foggiest notion why it didn''t go up in flames like the last one."


    It was hardly a compelling response. Benjamin knew it, knew he wasn''t really answering the question at all, just playing dumb and hoping for divine intervention. The words had scarcely left his lips before bitter regret began to take root. He cursed his own dull wits, his inability to conjure up a more convincing performance on the fly¡­


    But what was done was done. Regret at this juncture was an exercise in futility.


    He''d done his level best to affect an air of ingenuous sincerity. Whether the Archbishop would buy it was in the hands of the fates now.


    And yet, on the other side of the screen, the Archbishop remained silent, the letter still clutched in his unseen grasp.


    Benjamin could feel his nerves winding tighter than a watch spring. He was strung so taut, he half-expected his soul to come unmoored from sheer anxiety. At any second, he feared the Archbishop might rip aside the veil with a cry of "Deceitful wretch! To the pit with you!" and incinerate him on the spot with a bolt of holy fury.


    What thoughts churned behind that stony facade? Was he mired in doubt? Seething with righteous anger? Or did he already see through Benjamin''s ruse, clear as day? Were the walls already lined with paladins, awaiting but a signal to drag him away in irons?


    It was like staring down Judgment Day itself.


    In truth, the Archbishop''s silence lasted no more than twenty seconds. To Benjamin, it felt more like twenty years.


    At long last, he spoke, that sonorous baritone ringing out like a heavenly reprieve to Benjamin''s ears:


    "It is because she has realized you are a true and faithful servant of the Lord. In giving you this letter, she knew full well you would bring it straight to me. She seeks to exploit your piety, to lay a snare for the Church in a vile bid for vengeance."This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    Benjamin felt as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders.


    That little exchange had nearly given him a heart attack.


    Thank the heavens the Archbishop had interpreted Michelle''s intentions in such a way. From the sound of it, he hadn''t developed any suspicions towards Benjamin - at least, not overtly.


    He couldn''t decide if the Archbishop was simply too trusting or if he himself was blessed with extraordinary luck.


    Of course, it was entirely possible that the notion of Benjamin harboring ulterior motives had never even crossed the Archbishop''s mind, and all his panic had been purely self-inflicted.


    Or perhaps Michelle was the Archbishop''s sole focus. Whether Benjamin''s heart was pure or tainted was of little consequence. As long as he could divine Michelle''s aims and thwart her schemes, nothing else mattered. In his eyes, Benjamin was just some wet-behind-the-ears stripling, barely worth a second glance.


    Well, here''s hoping he''d stay beneath the Archbishop''s notice. That suited Benjamin just fine.


    "Your Grace, in five days'' time, should I still venture to the Lower City¡­" He maintained his facade of trepidation, probing for the Archbishop''s thoughts on the matter.


    "That won''t be necessary. It''s clearly a trap - you''ll find no trace of her there," the Archbishop replied, his tone unruffled.


    Upon hearing this, Benjamin found himself nursing a fresh headache.


    Michelle''s previous letter had instructed: "Give the second page to the Archbishop of St. Peter''s Cathedral. Convince him to believe its contents." While the Archbishop might not suspect Benjamin of any duplicity, he clearly put no stock in the letter''s claims. Benjamin wasn''t sure if this outcome would satisfy Michelle.


    No, that was a lie. He knew damn well that having her ploy unraveled would infuriate Michelle. And when Michelle was angry, he was the one who suffered.


    Plus, it ran counter to his own scheme of playing the sacrificial lamb.


    He had to find a way to persuade the Archbishop¡­ At the very least, he needed to ensure that someone from the Church would be dispatched to the prison ruins that day. Even if it was just a single knight getting thrashed alongside Benjamin, it should be enough to convince Michelle of his obedience.


    After much internal debate, Benjamin steeled himself to play devil''s advocate on Michelle''s behalf:


    "But Your Grace, can we really let her off so easily? If she truly seeks vengeance against the Church, she''s bound to leave some trace at the site. We mustn''t allow her to slip through our fingers. Your Grace, a servant of the divine never cowers before the temptations of a fallen one!"


    Acting as Michelle''s mouthpiece left a sour taste, but Benjamin forged ahead as best he could. His words needed to be convincing, yet not so clever as to rouse suspicion. After much deliberation, he settled on this pseudo-theological angle of attack.


    "You speak true, a servant of the divine never fears a demon''s thrall." Alas, when it came to theological repartee, the Archbishop still held the upper hand. "But the forces of darkness are ever cunning. We mustn''t blunder blindly into their snares. The Lord is mighty, but He is also wise. He watches over His faithful, and would never demand reckless sacrifice. To court danger needlessly goes against His will."


    Benjamin was at a loss. Clearly, the Archbishop was still wary of Michelle''s overinflated capabilities.


    He dearly wished he could set the record straight, to tell the Archbishop that Michelle''s magical prowess was middling at best, that she couldn''t even best a single squad of Cleansers. But he bit his tongue. The Church might have extracted some of his memories, but his narrow escape from the Cleansers alongside Michelle was not among them.


    He could only watch helplessly as Michelle brandished her nonexistent leverage, running circles around the Church in their battle of wits.


    If he was being honest, all he had to do was help the Church put Michelle six feet under and they''d lift his curse as a reward. But with how timidly they were proceeding, he had little faith in their ability to finish the job.


    And if Michelle wasn''t dealt with once and for all, he''d be the one to pay the piper. And so he vacillated between the two sides, paralyzed by indecision.


    "If that''s the case, Your Grace, could you perhaps bestow some additional protection upon me? This brazen witch has me fearing for the safety of myself and my kin. Today she leaves a letter under my pillow. What''s to stop her from spiriting me away tomorrow? I''d hate to be unable to provide the Church with further intelligence," he said after a moment''s hesitation, shifting his angle of attack.


    Straddling the fence came with drawbacks, but it had its advantages too. Benjamin was determined to milk those for all they were worth.


    As for whether Michelle would be displeased by the failure of her scheme¡­ well, that was a problem for another day. He''d already given up on swaying the Archbishop. To press the matter further would only make the holy man doubt his motives and loyalty.


    Really, this visit to the cathedral had gone much more smoothly than the last. If he couldn''t squeeze at least a bit of added security out of the Archbishop, he might as well bash his head against a column until he got isekai''d back to Kansas.


    "The Lord never forsakes the faithful." The Archbishop seemed to realize that he couldn''t send Benjamin away completely empty-handed. And so, after a brief pause, he passed a crucifix pendant to Benjamin through the screen. "This is a sacred relic imbued with holy might. It will shield you from the machinations of any fiendish sorcery. But take heed - its reservoir of divine power is not inexhaustible. After three invocations, its ability to dispel curses will be spent."


    Hallelujah! Jackpot!


    Benjamin''s spirits soared as he accepted the crucifix with barely contained glee.


    With this little beauty in his possession, Michelle could still hold the curse over his head, but she''d never be able to drag him off again - not without her Binding Spell to spirit him away on the sly. He had a mouth and he wasn''t afraid to use it.


    Plus, this crucifix was a secret weapon, one Michelle knew nothing about. Like before, it would be his trump card, ready to turn the tables when he needed it most.


    Forget raw power - with a schemer like Michelle, the real danger was what you didn''t see coming.


    "If you grip the crucifix tight and pray from the heart, it will also alert the nearest knight patrol to your location. They will rush to your aid posthaste," the Archbishop added before Benjamin''s elation could run away with him. "But this function too has its limits - three times only. Use it wisely, and only in the direst of circumstances."


    If anything, this revelation only heightened Benjamin''s euphoria. He gazed at the crucifix in his palm like it was the holy hand grenade of Antioch.


    In gaming terms, this thing was an epic-tier artifact! Magic immunity, an elite paladin DPS cooldown, and zero inventory footprint to boot! Truly the god roll of trans-dimensional loot drops!


    From this day forth, it would be his very own "Please Jesus, Don''t Let Me Die In This Fantasy Hellscape" panic button!


    "Bless you, Your Grace. Truly, the Almighty''s generosity knows no bounds." For once, the reverent platitude sprang from a place of sincere gratitude.


    "Walk always in the light of the Lord, and He shall be your aegis." The Archbishop''s reply was serenely noncommittal. "This concludes your confession. I will have one of the knights escort you home. Remember, what was spoken here tonight is known only to the Lord and we two. No other soul shall ever learn of it."


    "Yes, Your Grace." Benjamin nodded his assent, saying no more. He''d done what he could. The Archbishop''s dismissal came as a relief.


    He''d gotten what he came for and then some.


    Benjamin rose from the booth and exited the confessional. Without further ado, a knight materialized at his side, respectfully ushering him out of the cathedral.


    And so, while events hadn''t unfolded exactly according to plan, Benjamin still departed the Church in high spirits.


    Yet the Archbishop himself remained seated in the booth, still and silent as a statue, long after Benjamin had gone.


    Another knight approached the partition, murmuring a hushed "Your Grace?"


    The Archbishop lifted a hand, gesturing for the knight to hold his peace.


    And so the knight too lapsed into an uneasy silence.


    "What in the world is that girl playing at?"


    Suddenly, the Archbishop''s voice rang out, echoing up to the vaulted ceiling as he stared at the letter in his hands.


    The knight''s face registered blank shock. He made as if to answer, but quickly realized the Archbishop''s question had been rhetorical. He opted to stay his tongue.


    Seemingly lost in thought, the Archbishop raised his free palm. In an instant, a tongue of golden flame sprang to life, dancing and weaving in his grasp, radiant with holy light.


    With his other hand, he passed the letter over the fire, searing it with meticulous care.


    The knight stared at the missive, burning with curiosity yet not daring to pry. As the seconds ticked by, the flickering light played over his face, highlighting the dawning amazement in his expression.


    "This is¡­"


    At last, he could contain himself no longer.


    The Archbishop''s voice was as emotionless as the grave:


    "A message from the fallen."


    There on the reverse of the letter, a line of text that had not been there before was silently emerging from the flames, unbidden.

 Chapter 25: The War Begins

    Though the hour was late and the curfew in effect, Benjamin made it back to the Lither estate without incident, safely ensconced by his knightly escort.


    Slipping past the watchful eyes of the night servants, he stole back to his bedchamber, his movements undetected. Once the door was securely bolted, he collapsed onto the bed, fishing out the crucifix and admiring it with unabashed delight.


    The pendant was a dainty thing, wrought of silver and exquisitely crafted. As Benjamin pressed it to his brow, he could feel the faintest whisper of sanctified energy radiating from within, pure and incorruptible.


    So this was the power of holy magic.


    Compared to the arcane arts, the common folk of the Horian Kingdom were far more familiar with the divine workings of the Church. Every town had its chapel, every parish its priest, and scarcely a soul hadn''t born witness to some miracle or another.


    According to Church doctrine, holy magic was a gift from the Almighty, a sacred bulwark against the depredations of the infernal host.


    Legend told of an age long past, when demons ran rampant across the land, sowing famine, pestilence, and strife in their wake. Mankind eked out a wretched existence, the promise of a peaceful life little more than a distant dream.


    Then came a pair of brothers, Cain and Abel. None knew whence they hailed, but both were driven by a singular purpose: to deliver humanity from the clutches of demonkind and usher in a new era of hope. Time and again they met with failure, until at last Cain offered himself up as a sacrifice to the forces of darkness, gaining great power thereby. In the end, he used his ever-growing might to turn the tables on the fiends, banishing them and restoring tranquility to the world.


    Alas, the peace was short-lived. Tainted by his unholy bargain, Cain grew increasingly brutal and duplicitous, a cruel mirror of the very demons he''d ousted. He began to enslave the people, wage wars of conquest, and slaughter the innocent, plunging the world back into chaos scarcely a heartbeat after rescuing it.


    Abel watched his brother''s fall from grace with mounting dread. In the aftermath of yet another bloody campaign, he knelt in prayer within the opulent halls of Cain''s palace, in full view of the tyrant himself. Enraged, Cain had Abel clapped in irons and crucified, left to suffer untold agonies. Seven days later, Abel vanished, only to reappear before his brother wielding the power of holy magic.


    What transpired in the intervening time, none could say. But all bore witness to what followed - a titanic clash between the newly anointed Abel and his fallen sibling.


    In the end, Abel emerged triumphant.


    As he prepared to purge Cain''s corruption with the searing light of sanctity, his brother wept, seeming to revert to his former self. He spoke of happier times, of the bond they once shared, his lamentations moving Abel to mercy. Letting down his guard, Abel turned his back for but a moment - a moment Cain seized to strike a coward''s blow, consuming Abel in a gout of profane fire.


    Even as Cain gloated over the ashes, a divine radiance split the heavens, fixing him in its implacable glare. The voice of the Almighty rang out, demanding Abel''s whereabouts. Cain merely scoffed, denying all knowledge. Disgusted by this brazen falsehood, the Lord made to strip Cain of his ill-gotten power and cast him out to wander forevermore. Cain, enraged, rejected this judgement and, shedding his lifeblood, wove a mighty curse to seal the world away from the sight of both Heaven and Hell. Thus did the mortal realm become a land forsaken by God.


    Cain perished soon after, drained by his foul working, but his tainted blood seeped into the earth, ensuring demonkind''s legacy would endure. The world, once more gripped by chaos, descended into an orgy of violence as those imbued with the dark gift turned upon one another, while common folk cowered in the shadows, struggling to survive.


    Until one day, a young man knelt in the very spot where Abel breathed his last and clasped his hands in prayer. A beam of purest light rose from his conjoined palms, bursting across the night sky like celestial fireworks, reflected in the eyes of all who gazed up in wonder. Thus was holy magic bestowed upon mankind, and the pious youth hailed as the first Pope of the nascent Church.


    Plunging his hands into the scorched earth that had cradled Abel''s remains, the Pope withdrew a fractured blade. The moment his fingers brushed its surface, a single phrase echoed in his mind:


    "The sacred light embraces the world."


    This relic would go on to become the Church''s most hallowed treasure, enshrined in the deepest sanctum of St. Peter''s Cathedral, and those words the first of the divine commandments, recited by the faithful across the generations.


    Such was the tale the Church told of magic''s origins, both holy and profane.


    When the AI first relayed this story to Benjamin, he couldn''t help but notice the striking parallels to the myths of his own world. Figures like Cain and Abel, with their all-too-familiar tragic arc, strained the bounds of mere coincidence.


    Could there be some deeper connection between this realm and his own?


    Alas, the answer eluded him.


    This world was a different beast entirely. Magic, miracles, the shattered boundaries of human potential¡­ for all he knew, the gods of legend were simply mortals of nigh-incomprehensible power.


    The old myths might very well have a grain of truth to them - though the Church''s version could be just one of many. No doubt the Mages had their own take, with the priests cast in a rather less flattering light.


    The thought brought a wry smile to Benjamin''s lips.Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    If these tales did have some basis in historical fact, they could well hold the key to unraveling the fundamental mysteries of this world. But to even contemplate such a feat in his current state¡­ well, that was quite the lofty goal for a regular Joe barely a week into his new fantasy life.


    Better to focus on the basics. Like not getting himself killed in some awful way.


    Benjamin felt the sandman''s siren call. Stowing the crucifix with reverent care, he made quick work of his ablutions, doused the bedside lamp, and slipped between the sheets. Scarcely had his head touched the pillow before sleep claimed him, a deep and dreamless oblivion.


    Perhaps it was the exhaustion of having gone so long without proper sleep, but this time Benjamin slumbered like the dead. By the time he finally awoke, it was nearly noon of the following day.


    And it was not of his own accord that he rejoined the world of the living.


    "Benjamin! Wake up, it''s time to go! Rise and shine!" A grating voice cut through the fog of slumber, rousing him from his torpor.


    Benjamin cracked open bleary eyes, still half-mired in the muzziness of interrupted dreams.


    "Out of bed, lazybones, we''re going to be late!" The ear-splitting entreaties continued to assail him, but it was the mention of lateness that truly snapped him to attention, a surge of pre-transmigration memories flooding his sleep-addled brain.


    Late? Late for what?


    Good grief, don''t tell me I have an early lecture¡­


    Benjamin scrubbed at his face, forcing his eyes to focus. There, looming over his bed, was a boy of an age with himself and of strikingly similar countenance. Hands gripped Benjamin''s shoulders, shaking him with ungentle fervor.


    Grantt Lither. His brother.


    "Wha¡­ what''s going on?" Benjamin stammered out, still fuzzy and disoriented.


    According to the AI''s dossier, he and Grantt were ostensibly on good terms - his sibling held no particular disdain for Benjamin''s black sheep status. But for the Benjamin of here and now, this was his first proper interaction with Grantt. To say the current situation fell somewhat outside his expectations would be putting it mildly.


    And what was all this nonsense about being late and having to go? Go where, exactly?


    "Don''t tell me you forgot? Today''s the day we make war, now quit your lollygagging and get a move on before we miss the whole thing!" Grantt urged, brooking no argument.


    Make war?


    Benjamin goggled at his brother, jaw dangling somewhere in the vicinity of his navel. And yet Grantt''s expression remained deadly serious, even taking on a vaguely fanatical sheen, not a hint of levity to be found.


    "¡­"


    After a long moment of glassy-eyed incomprehension, Benjamin flopped back down onto the bed, rolling over and burrowing into the pillows.


    Clearly, this was all some sort of bizarre dream.


    And if his subconscious was content to marinate in violent absurdity, who was he to fight it? All he asked was that it kindly refrain from cutting his hard-earned beauty sleep short. This was a very expensive mattress, after all.


    "Hey! No more lazing about, up and at ''em!" Alas, Grantt stubbornly failed to dissolve into the ether like a proper figment. If anything, his efforts to rouse Benjamin only redoubled, the vigorous shaking threatening to purge Benjamin''s stomach of what little it contained.


    Admitting defeat, Benjamin levered himself upright once more, cracking open an eye.


    "So¡­ not a dream, then?" he ventured.


    "Decidedly not," Grantt confirmed.


    "¡­"


    Benjamin was at a loss. This was all a bit much to process on zero caffeine.


    Ever since crash-landing in this bizarro world, his mornings had been relentlessly cursed. Abducted by witches, accosted by sleepwalking cretins¡­ and now, apparently, he''d napped through the eve of Armageddon. Just how long had he been out?


    And this war business¡­ they were seriously going off to battle?


    "Quit dawdling and get dressed already! Hustle, hustle, hustle¡­"


    "Alright, alright, I''m hustling! Ease up before I lose my lunch!"


    Cowed by Grantt''s manic haranguing, Benjamin found himself bustled out of bed and through his morning routine like a lamb to slaughter, head still foggy and reeling. Before he could even try to get a word in, Grantt had grabbed him by the arm and hauled him bodily out the front door at a sprint.


    Not a single servant batted an eye at this display. Apparently, it was par for the course at Casa de Lither.


    As the cobwebs fell away, a put-upon Benjamin turned inward, seeking the counsel of his ever-present silicon sidekick:


    "Any idea what the hell''s going on?"


    The AI''s response was as languid as it was cryptic. "Nothing to get your knickers in a bunch over. Just a spot of roughhousing for the idle rich."


    Needless to say, this failed to satisfy on any level.


    "Care to elaborate? What kind of roughhousing involves marching off to war before lunch? Are we trading blows with some other toffs'' bratty offspring, or what?" Benjamin pressed, thoroughly unamused.


    "Hmm¡­" The AI paused, as if pondering the question. "In a nutshell¡­ yeah, pretty much."


    "Gee, thanks for clearing that up." Benjamin''s tone could have stripped paint.


    "Oy, don''t get your silks in a twist, it''s not all that serious. Cross my heart," the AI proclaimed, blithely unruffled. "Why the rush? Spelling it out would take donkey''s years. Just keep your shirt on, you''ll suss it out soon enough."


    ¡­ Was the AI truly on the level?


    Benjamin couldn''t help but harbor some doubts on that score.


    The System''s failings were already legion. To that bill of particulars, Benjamin could now add "work-shy" in bold, underlined script.


    Clearly, he''d get no straight answer out of that gnomic bucket of bolts. And one look at Grantt''s single-minded mania made it plain that he was in no state for a nuanced heart-to-heart. Resigning himself to utter bafflement, Benjamin simply focused on keeping pace and not passing out, trusting that wherever his brother was dragging him would shed some light on this farce.


    And so the fine folk of Havenlight''s inner districts were treated to the sight of two young lordlings pelting down the high street, one wearing the haggard mien of a man who''d long since abandoned any pretense of control over his fate.


    Mercifully, their destination proved close at hand - after a few minutes of breathless sprinting, Grantt skidded to a stop.


    They were still in the inner city, albeit a decidedly less-traveled quarter. Before them loomed a derelict castle, long in the tooth but no less imposing for its age and modest scale. Even so, its very presence within the city walls gave Benjamin pause.


    A small crowd had gathered at the castle gates, numbering a dozen or so in all. A closer look revealed them to be exclusively adolescent boys, all decked out in upper-crust finery - a point in favor of the AI''s glib "idle rich" assessment, irritatingly enough.


    Even so, Benjamin''s core befuddlement persisted. Just what was this little meet-and-greet in aid of?


    "There you are! Cutting it close, aren''t we?" called out one of the assembled youths, breaking from the group to greet the stragglers.


    "Still made it before kick-off, didn''t we? Don''t get your knickers in a twist," Grantt shot back without missing a beat.


    The boy waved it off. "Fair enough, fair enough. Right, let''s get this show on the road. You know the drill - scatter, festivities commence in ten." At his words, the motley band began filing into the castle proper.


    Commence what, exactly? What was the game here¡­?


    Though the shape of the affair continued to elude him, one detail in particular caught Benjamin''s eye - skulking among the pack was none other than Dick Fur himself.


    As if sensing Benjamin''s gaze, Dick chose that moment to throw a look over his shoulder. Their eyes met and Dick''s face twisted into a mask of naked malice, a threatening gesture and a general air of "you''re dead meat" completing the picture.


    Benjamin''s patience, already stretched tissue-thin, threatened to snap entirely.


    Of all the rotten luck¡­ what was that insufferable pillock doing here?

 Chapter 26: War Games

    Thoroughly befuddled, Benjamin followed Grantt into the castle. As they went, the terminally work-shy AI finally deigned to pipe up and shed some light on the situation.


    "Seven or eight years back, tensions were running high on this continent. There was another nation that rivaled the Horian Kingdom, and war seemed all but inevitable. As such, you young aristocrats were put through some fairly rigorous combat training. But as luck would have it, that rival nation soon collapsed into civil strife, the looming conflict never materialized, and your martial education was cut short."


    The AI paused for a beat, then continued:


    "But you restless little scamps, you''d absorbed all this military lore and were chomping at the bit to put it to the test. When the real deal failed to deliver, you got it in your heads that your battlefield talents were being wasted. And so, at someone''s bright idea, this little tradition was born. A gaggle of young lords gathering at this old castle for a spot of simulated slaughter. Of course, none of you lot see it as mere play-acting. You go at it like the fate of nations hangs in the balance, the very picture of youthful gravitas."


    As the AI''s words sank in, Benjamin could only shake his head in mute exasperation.


    "What a pack of overgrown children."


    He had less than zero interest in this asinine little war game. Sounded like little more than a schoolyard scrap with delusions of grandeur. Frankly, he''d sooner catch a few more z''s, or spend some quality time "meditating", than waste his day on something so puerile.


    "Bit rich, coming from you. What, you''re telling me you never played at knights and brigands as a lad?" The AI, as ever, couldn''t resist taking the cheap shot.


    "¡­ I mean, sure, when I was like ten."


    Benjamin rallied quickly, his tone turning lofty and censorious: "But these jokers are old enough to shave. Bit past the age for mucking about with wooden swords and cardboard shields, wouldn''t you say?"


    "Hey, you had your Gameboy. Not their fault they have to make their own fun." The AI pressed on, relentless. "In fact, I''d wager you sunk way more hours into Age of Empires than these boys spend on their little LARP sessions. To say nothing of the king''s ransom you dropped on skins and loot boxes."


    "¡­"


    Benjamin found himself uncharacteristically short on snappy comebacks.


    While this scintillating exchange unfolded in the privacy of his own head, he''d been trailing dutifully after Grantt. They now found themselves holed up in a musty, dilapidated room, devoid of any furnishings or decor. Grantt had shepherded them behind the door, pulling it to and holding his breath, for all the world like a soldier lying in ambush.


    Benjamin, though he aped his brother''s actions readily enough, wanted no part in this harebrained escapade.


    "Hey, listen, is there any chance I could just-"


    "Shhh, pipe down." Grantt cut him off at once, voice pitched low and urgent. "Just stick with me, we''ll cruise to an easy win, no worries."


    "¡­"


    So much for an early exit.


    Ah well. Might as well play along and get it over with. A quick once-over of the castle''s layout had confirmed it was no sprawling labyrinth - with any luck, he''d be done with this tomfoolery and on his merry way before too long.


    Sure enough, scarcely two minutes had passed before a pair of aspiring commandos came bumbling up to their hidey-hole, making to shoulder the door aside for a spot of recon. Quick as a snake, Grantt sprang out from behind the door, a pair of small orbs clutched in his hands, appearing as if by magic.


    "Holy Hand Grenade!" he bellowed, sending the spheres hurtling at the hapless scouts with unerring accuracy.


    The boys, clearly taken aback, gaped at Grantt for a beat. Then, making a great show of inspecting the spots where the missiles had struck, they collapsed bonelessly to the floor, expiring with much melodramatic flair.


    "¡­ Ye gods, the cringe." Even having braced himself for this kind of lunacy, Benjamin couldn''t quite bite back the reflexive jab.


    The balls standing in for Holy Hand Grenades (and what kind of absurd, Monty Python-ass spell was that anyhow?), the bargain basement death scenes, those he could forgive. But what earthly purpose did that eardrum-shattering battle cry serve? At this rate, he half expected the Horian clergy to take up Mjolnir-hurling in Odin''s name.


    "Actually, there''s a reason for that," the AI chimed in, as if reading his thoughts (and for all Benjamin knew, it very well might be). "Holy Hand Grenades are notoriously flashy bits of battle magic. To simulate that effect, the rules of the game stipulate that their use has to be accompanied by that shout, revealing the wielder''s position to all and sundry."


    "¡­"


    Once again, Benjamin found himself at a loss for a suitably cutting retort.


    "Don''t underestimate these boys," the AI continued, its tone almost comically grave. "They''ve had honest-to-gods combat training. To them, this is deadly serious business."


    As if to underscore the AI''s point, having dispatched his first brace of enemies, Grantt immediately set about hauling Benjamin to a new position. His movements were a study in special forces precision, all textbook combat rolls and high-low recon sweeps - the very model of a modern martial prodigy.If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    His compatriots, alas, proved somewhat less professionally drilled, their aristocratic softness shining through in every overblown gesture and clumsy duck-and-weave. And so as the running battle wore on, the tally of Grantt''s conquered foes mounted ever higher, the castle''s corridors littered with the dramatically splayed forms of the fallen.


    Benjamin, for his part, simply tail-ended his brother''s one-boy blitzkrieg, riding his coattails to victory with a mounting sense of sheepish bewilderment.


    But for all the absurdity on parade, he had to admit it was an instructive display. Seeing Grantt in action, the reputed scope of his sibling''s talents took on an almost palpable weight.


    "You''re sure this is the genius you mentioned? The one whose birth came attended by all those signs and portents?" He directed the sardonic aside inward, a wry twist to his nonexistent lips.


    "What, you thought wunderkinder swanned about with their noses in the air, awing lesser minds with their towering intellect?" The AI tutted, a note of reproach creeping in. "Mistake this boy at your peril. The Holy Hand Grenades he''s packing could clear this whole castle, given half a chance. Whereas you''d be lucky to conjure enough water bullets to give the occupants a quick hand-washing."


    "¡­"


    Brushing off the AI''s mockery, Benjamin remained skeptical. "If he''s really that powerful, how did Michelle manage to abduct him in the first place?"


    The AI had an explanation at the ready. "Michelle''s been running circles around the Church for ages. You can bet she has ways of countering holy magic. And even if she didn''t, you really think she''d try to strong-arm Grantt head-on? Clever and experienced as she is, she could run rings around a dozen of him without breaking a sweat."


    Benjamin mulled that over for a moment before conceding the point.


    "Fair enough."


    His sudden interest in Grantt''s capabilities wasn''t born of any fraternal concern. Rather, a thought had just occurred to him - if Grantt''s mastery of holy magic was truly so formidable, why not recruit him to lift the curse that plagued Benjamin?


    After all, Grantt was still just a lad of thirteen or so. Surely Benjamin could contrive some pretext to secure his aid, youthful gullibility and all. Deceiving a starry-eyed young boy prone to delusions of grandeur might prick the old conscience a bit, but weighed against his very life¡­ well, priorities were priorities.


    And once the curse was broken, Benjamin would be as free as a bird, beholden to none. Michelle and the Church could butt heads to their hearts'' content - nothing to do with him.


    Brilliant! Absolutely brilliant!


    Thus musing, Benjamin felt his prospects suddenly take on a decidedly rosier cast.


    For all her vaunted cunning, it seemed Michelle had made a rare misstep. Surely it had never crossed her mind that Benjamin might seek succor from his wunderkind of a brother at this critical juncture.


    Eh¡­


    Wait a tick!


    Would Michelle truly have overlooked such an obvious angle?


    Benjamin''s soaring spirits plummeted back to earth with whiplash-inducing speed. Perhaps it was the long shadow Michelle had cast over his psyche, but he simply couldn''t picture her failing to account for this possibility.


    Sure enough, upon querying the AI, he received a disheartening response.


    "Hard to say. It''s possible her curse is esoteric enough to stymie even Grantt''s expertise. More likely, though, she''s banking on the Church''s strictures around the use of holy magic."


    Feeling his hopes dim further, Benjamin nonetheless pressed on. "What strictures?"


    "Initiates are forbidden from wielding holy magic frivolously," the AI explained. "Prodigiously gifted though he may be, Grantt has yet to officially graduate from the Church''s tutelage. As such, he lacks the authority to employ his powers outside sanctioned contexts. And with the Church watching his every move¡­ well, you''ve seen firsthand how eager they are to aid you. Michelle''s almost certainly aware of this, hence her brazenness."


    Damn and blast¡­


    Benjamin couldn''t help but feel he''d been outfoxed yet again.


    Still, after matching wits with Michelle in so many skirmishes, his mental fortitude had grown considerably. He''d never been one to lean on others - the notion of soliciting Grantt''s intervention had been but a passing whim. If it panned out, wonderful. If not, hardly the end of the world. Wouldn''t be the first time Lady Luck had spat in his eye.


    Just as well, really. Saved him the headache of having to hoodwink Grantt. There was a certain freedom in flying solo.


    And so he continued to tail Grantt as the boy cut a swathe through the opposition, bearing witness to a comprehensive display of tactical acumen, from ambuscades to frontal assaults. Scarcely an adversary could withstand him for more than a minute.


    Benjamin had to admit, it was an eye-opening spectacle - inasmuch as he was willing to take this game seriously, anyhow.


    But even to his untrained eye, it was plain Grantt''s foes lacked his single-minded focus. For Grantt, this was a true crucible of war. For the others¡­ well, the game was still very much afoot.


    Benjamin couldn''t help but wonder if Grantt himself hadn''t been the one to propose these martial games in the first place.


    Had he been born in the modern age, the boy would surely be the most die-hard MMO addict of all, the sort to cosplay his avatar at conventions.


    Under the sure hand of a seasoned veteran, even a raw rookie like Benjamin made swift progress. After what felt to him an interminable slog (in truth, a mere hour), the game was finally entering its climactic phase, the tally of the "slain" rising steadily.


    After taking stock with the AI, Benjamin confirmed only two enemies remained standing.


    "At last, the end is nigh," he mused to himself.


    "You should savor the experience," the AI chided. "Just look at Grantt - so focused, so in the zone. Honing his skills even as he indulges his passion. Now there''s a true paragon of gamesmanship."


    "It''s not that I don''t want to get caught up in the moment," Benjamin admitted quietly. "I just¡­ can''t. It''s like asking a hardcore fan of bleeding-edge VR shooters to suddenly embrace old-school 16-bit RPGs. Not an easy transition. I don''t mean to be a killjoy, it''s just how I''m wired."


    The AI was silent for a spell, then spoke up abruptly. "You know, dissing retro RPGs within earshot of their diehard fans? That''s a good way to get yourself flamed to a crisp. Might want to watch that talk, chief."


    Benjamin too fell quiet, contemplating the AI''s words. "I know. But it''s not like I''m writing a novel here. This ain''t a first draft I can take back later. In real life, you''re stuck with what comes out of your mouth, even if you end up regretting it."


    The AI offered no rebuttal, and Benjamin lapsed into brooding silence. After a long, discomfiting beat, he suddenly twitched as if snapping out of a trance, even hiccuping for good measure.


    "Did we¡­ did we just have a really weird conversation?" he asked the AI, brow furrowed.


    "Conversation? What conversation? Not a word''s passed between us, boss," the AI replied, the very picture of innocent bewilderment.


    Benjamin could only nod, his own expression one of utmost solemnity.


    "My thoughts exactly."


    With that, their attention shifted back to the here and now. In the waking world, the game had entered its final stretch. Grantt continued to stalk the two holdouts as Benjamin looked on, stifling a yawn and resigning himself to await the game''s conclusion.


    But then, as if struck by a bolt from the blue, he snapped to high alert, a deep unease etching itself across his features.


    "Hey, wait a sec. That Fur kid¡­ was he among the clowns we put down earlier?" He directed the query at the AI, his phrasing markedly deliberate.


    "Negative," the AI confirmed.


    "You''re dead certain?" Benjamin pressed.


    "Doubting my faculties now, are we? If I say he wasn''t there, you can take that to the bank. I''d stake my motherboard on it, eight hundred percent."


    At those words, Benjamin drew in a shuddering breath.


    He gazed down the corridor ahead, at the lone unexplored room at its terminus. In that instant, an almost palpable sense of imminent disaster crashed over him like a gelid wave, raising gooseflesh and chilling him to his marrow.

 Chapter 27: Drop Your Weapon!

    They arrived at the entrance to the final room.


    As Grantt pushed open the last door, he remained fully focused, proceeding with utmost caution, like a special agent executing a high-stakes raid. At the instant of entry, he even performed a deft combat roll to the right, braced for any potential ambush.


    Erring on the side of prudence, Benjamin hung back a step, maintaining a safe distance.


    And yet, as the door swung wide¡­ nothing. No attack came.


    Perplexed, Benjamin advanced a few paces, peering into the room from the threshold. There, he spied Dick Fur standing shoulder to shoulder with a hulking young man. The moment Benjamin''s gaze found them, they turned as one to face him.


    Judging by their stony mien, they''d been awaiting this confrontation.


    The air fairly crackled with menace.


    A chill rippled down Benjamin''s spine. The urge to simply turn tail and beat a hasty retreat was nigh overpowering.


    He knew, with grim certainty, that in the wake of the Chamber Pot Incident, Dick''s enmity toward him would have only grown more implacable. Knowing what he did of the boy''s character, Dick would stop at nothing to exact his revenge.


    And given the present circumstances, well¡­


    It didn''t take a genius to divine Dick''s true purpose in attending these war games. He was here for Benjamin, full stop.


    A proper pickle, this.


    Just as the tension between Benjamin and Dick reached a fever pitch, the charged silence stretching taut as a fraying bowstring, a piercing cry shattered the moment like a hurled brick through a plate glass window.


    "Holy Hand Grenade!"


    In a flash, Grantt darted into the room, falling back on his tried and true tactic. Twin orbs flew from his hands with unerring accuracy, striking Dick and his hulking companion square in the chest.


    "¡­"


    The giant glanced down at the ball lying at his feet, then shot a questioning look at Dick. He wavered, seeming to war with himself, but ultimately forwent any dramatic show of expiration. As for Dick, he remained stock still, not so much as twitching a muscle, his eyes fixed on Benjamin with the burning focus of an exam proctor.


    Grantt faltered, thrown off his stride.


    "Hey, no fair! You''re breaking the rules!" he snarled, voice thick with righteous outrage.


    "Oh."


    Dick uses Scathing Indifference


    It''s super effective!


    Grantt''s will to fight drastically falls!


    Benjamin could only sigh inwardly at the sight.


    Looked like it fell to him to get to the bottom of this.


    Turning to Grantt, he forced an air of casual ease. "Guess it''s on me to handle these two. No worries, I''ve got this." And with that, he took a few steps forward, attention shifting back to Dick.


    Those few strides filled him with the heady rush of imminent badassery as he stared down his foe.


    "So. What''s your angle here?" The challenge rang out, clear as a clarion call.


    But even as he cast himself in the role of stalwart hero, he was frantically pinging the AI for intel. "The big guy with Dick. What''s his deal?"


    The AI''s reply was prompt and concise: "That''s his younger brother, Cunt Fur. A savant, blessed with prodigious strength since birth. Alas, a severe bout of fever at the age of three addled his wits. Not the sharpest tool in the shed, but fiercely obedient to his kin. His size and raw power are enough to give most pause."


    Benjamin gulped audibly, his sense of foreboding ratcheting up to eleven.


    Dick alone didn''t faze him - this wasn''t the Lither estate, and the boy had no elders to fall back on here. He was no real threat, for all his noodle-armed bluster.


    But with a bruiser like his brother in play¡­ that complicated matters considerably.


    Well. Best to suss out Dick''s game before borrowing any more trouble.


    "My angle? Playing dumb doesn''t suit you." There was something almost cartoonishly villainous about Dick''s delivery, an overwrought menace coloring his words. "I mean to pay you back in full for every ounce of humiliation you''ve heaped upon me!"


    Quick as a snake, his hand darted to some unseen inner pocket, returning with - of all things! - a chamber pot clutched in his white-knuckled grip.


    "¡­"


    So, what, he''d taken to carrying one on his person at all times since the fateful incident that had sparked their feud?


    Man, talk about holding a grudge.


    The sheer single-minded zealotry of the gesture, the unwavering commitment to retribution¡­ in a strange way, it almost commanded a certain begrudging respect.Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.


    "Get a load of this guy," the AI marveled, sounding faintly awestruck in spite of itself."I''d be on my guard if I were you, chief. This one''s no common madman. If I had to guess, he''s got some sort of enchanted storage artifact on him. Heck, for all we know, he could be another poor sap yanked from his home realm like yourself."


    "¡­ Come again?"


    The AI''s scorn could have stripped paint. "Where else would he be pulling a honking great chamber pot from, his prison wallet?"


    "¡­ I mean, not to kinkshame, but¡­"


    The arrival of the chamber pot had taken all the wind out of the moment''s sails, the mounting tension dissipating in an instant. Only Dick stubbornly clung to his villainous gravitas, his face a veritable kabuki mask of overwrought menace. Benjamin had to stifle a snort of mingled mirth and exasperation. In his own way, Dick cut a faintly pitiable figure. Not that Benjamin had any intention of taking it easy on him, even so.


    "Right, yeah, no. I think we''re done here. Clearly these two have no interest in playing by the rules, so let''s call it a day, shall we? C''mon, Grantt, time to head home." And with that, he turned back to his brother, the unspoken ''leave the weirdos to their weird'' plain in his tone.


    Grantt stood there, dumbfounded.


    Benjamin had no choice but to press on. "What''s the point of sticking around? They''ve made it clear they''re not playing along. Let''s just head home."


    Grantt snapped out of his fugue, and though a note of reluctance colored his acquiescence, he nodded all the same. "Yeah, alright. Let''s bail." Even so, he couldn''t resist shooting Dick a parting glare, as if to condemn him for sullying the sanctity of the game.


    Benjamin, for his part, had no interest in prolonging the drama. He turned on his heel, eager to make tracks.


    Anything to escape this scene before the chamber pot''s reek truly saturated the air.


    "Freeze! Not another step!" Dick''s cry rang out, sharp and desperate. He couldn''t squander this golden opportunity. "Cunt, stop them! Don''t let them leave this place, you hear me?!"


    The lummox beside him merely stared, slack-jawed and uncomprehending. It took several more rounds of enraged bellowing and frantic gesticulating from Dick before Cunt cottoned on, lumbering toward Benjamin with a determined, if vacant, expression.


    Benjamin blanched at Cunt''s turn of speed.


    Holy hell, since when could the big galoot move that fast?


    Even as he wavered, torn between holding his ground and beating a hasty retreat, Grantt burst into action with a fierce cry: "I''ve got this lug! Leave him to me!"


    And just like that, he was charging headlong to meet Cunt''s advance. As the giant''s meaty paws stretched out to snare him, Grantt launched himself airborne, a blur of motion too swift to track. In a feat of acrobatic prowess, he somehow contrived to scissor his legs around Cunt''s neck in a flash.


    Cunt lost his balance and the pair crashed to the floor in a graceless tangle, each struggling to gain the upper hand. Cunt bucked and thrashed in a vain attempt to dislodge his foe, while Grantt tightened his vise-like grip, locking the two in a stalemate.


    Benjamin could only gape slack-jawed at the display. He wasn''t sure whether to applaud Grantt''s slick fighting moves or lambast his chuuni recklessness.


    Dick too seemed paralyzed with shock, clearly blindsided by Grantt''s ability to grapple Cunt to a standstill through raw, brute strength. But the fires of enmity could not be so easily quenched. Shaking off his stupefaction, he fixed his baleful gaze on Benjamin once more.


    Benjamin met Dick''s stare, a sinking sensation welling in his gut.


    With Grantt entangled in his wrestling match, Benjamin''s hopes for a clean getaway had been soundly dashed. He could hardly abandon his brother to this fracas, after all.


    What a headache.


    Dick''s hand, still clutching that accursed chamber pot, began to rise with ponderous menace. He was the spitting image of that iconic shot of a soldier, grenade raised aloft in trembling fingers, ready to martyr himself for the cause.


    "Oh, hell no!"


    A chill raced down Benjamin''s spine.


    He dropped into a crouch, bracing to dodge.


    "No dodging!" Dick''s voice scaled up in panic. "You so much as twitch, and I''ll brain ''em with this!"


    He swung the chamber pot around, taking aim at the grappling forms of Grantt and Cunt.


    Grantt blanched at the threat, his grip faltering just long enough for Cunt to buck free with a mighty heave. But rather than pressing his advantage, Cunt barreled straight toward Benjamin, single-minded in his pursuit of his original directive.


    Dick practically crowed with glee. "That''s it, Cunt! Grab the bastard!"


    Benjamin stared down the oncoming juggernaut, his mind whirling in frantic calculation. There was no time to evade.


    "Shit shit shit!"


    The situation was deteriorating by the second. He didn''t have the luxury of conscious thought. In an eyeblink, Cunt was looming over him, meaty mitts a hair''s breadth from seizing their prize.


    Pure instinct took over. Benjamin''s foot lashed out in a desperate kick.


    For an instant, time seemed to freeze, the air in the corridor gone preternaturally still.


    "Ah. So that''s the secret to his speed. He''s accustomed to taking such¡­ wide strides," the AI mused, its interjection jarringly placid given the circumstances.


    Wide¡­ strides?


    Benjamin was still lost in the fog of panicked reflex.


    Gradually, a sense of wrongness pervaded his awareness. Cunt''s hands hovered scant centimeters from him, yet their advance had been arrested. But how¡­?


    Bewildered, Benjamin cast his gaze downward.


    His left leg was still cocked, poised at the apex of its arc between Cunt''s tree-trunk thighs - he could feel a phantom tingle in his instep, as if it had connected with something solid mid-kick.


    "M-mommy¡­"


    The words gusted from Cunt''s lips in a breathy whimper. Tears began to well in the giant''s eyes, tracing glistening trails down his contorted features.


    Benjamin''s leg retracted as if burned, his retreat accompanied by several shaky backsteps. He could only stare, flummoxed, as Cunt teetered on the cusp of a full-blown bawling session. An unfamiliar pang of contrition twisted in his gut.


    "I''m sorry, man. That wasn''t¡­ I didn''t mean to¡­" The words rang with unaccustomed sincerity. Benjamin couldn''t recall the last time an apology had felt so heartfelt on his lips.


    Mercifully, despite the occasional sniffle, Cunt managed to keep the waterworks mostly in check. Slowly, tremulously, his hands crept down to cup his injured assets.


    Still blubbering, still mewling entreaties to his absent mother, Cunt began to shuffle toward the castle''s exit. His gait was more of a hobble, each step an effort. And yet, for some inexplicable reason, no one lifted a finger to assist - or impede - his retreat.


    He departed without fanfare, without acknowledgement, the corridors echoing with his piteous whimpers and the low, keening wail of a child crying out for a parent.


    And then, silence.


    Only once Cunt''s figure had vanished beyond the castle gates did the spell break. Dick burst into frenzied exhortations, demanding his brother return at once. But his words fell on deaf ears. No sign remained of his loyal attack dog.


    Benjamin and Grantt turned to face Dick in eerie synchrony, a palpable menace in their level gaze.


    The bottom dropped out of Dick''s stomach.


    "W-what do you think you''re doing? Don''t get cocky, Benjamin! I''ll never let you off the hook, you hear me?!"


    He brandished the chamber pot anew, gripped in a white-knuckled fist.


    Exchanging a wordless glance, Benjamin and Grantt dropped into menacing crouches. As one, they began to advance on Dick from opposing angles, slow and implacable.


    "Don''t do anything stupid, now. Just put down the weapon nice and easy. I''ll say it again - drop the weapon, you''re surrounded. You have the right to remain silent, but anything you say can and will be used against-"


    Benjamin''s spiel cut off abruptly as the standoff took a sudden, calamitous turn.


    "Don''t move! One more step and I''ll¡­ I''ll blow your damn head off!"


    Voice pitching wildly with hysteria, Dick''s offhand darted into his sleeve - and returned clutching the grip of a pistol. Keeping the chamber pot raised in his dominant hand, he leveled the barrel at Benjamin with a trembling arm.