《The City of Cities》


 Introduction

    Beneath the ruins of Aelintheldaar (which hasn¡¯t been called that in thousands of years) past the grasping roots of twisted trees and the skeletal remains of adventurers whose ambitions exceeded their skill, there lay a box. Not a particularly ornate box, nor one that looked magical at first glance. Its wood was blackened and warped, its carvings weathered to illegibility. But the box hummed faintly, emitting a vibration that only the most perceptive would detect¡ªa faint warning to anyone curious enough to linger near it.


    For nine thousand years, the box sat undisturbed. Entire civilizations rose and fell, their ruins piling upon each other like discarded clothing, while the box slumbered in the dark. Wars raged, kings and queens made grand proclamations, and gods waged their eternal bickering, but none dared disturb the box. And so, in silence and solitude, it waited.


    Then, naturally, a group of idiots came along and opened it.


    ¡°I told you,¡± Nimeia said, her tone edged with the kind of weary patience one might reserve for toddlers or unusually dense barn animals, ¡°this is a terrible idea.¡±


    ¡°Noted,¡± said Saja, who, by the tone of her voice, had clearly not noted it at all. The gnome crouched in front of the box, her nimble fingers twitching with the restrained energy of someone who had not yet stabbed anything today and was getting twitchy about it. ¡°Now hand me the chisel.¡±


    Vesper, the ranger, leaned silently against a nearby column, her face locked in its usual mask of grim disapproval. If she had an opinion about the box, she hadn¡¯t voiced it. Not that anyone would have listened, mind you.


    Nimeia crossed her arms, casting a glance at Saja, who was now inspecting the intricate lock on the box with the enthusiasm of a cat about to knock something fragile off a table. ¡°Saja. Please. Let¡¯s think this through.¡±


    ¡°Oh, I thought it through,¡± Saja replied with a toothy grin. ¡°It looks expensive. Probably magical. Maybe cursed. Either way, I like my odds. Might make some of these damn voices I¡¯m always hearin¡¯ go away.¡±


    Vesper sighed. A deep, soul-weary sigh that carried the weight of a thousand bad decisions¡ªnot all of them her own.


    The lock gave way with an audible click, and for a moment, the three of them stared at the box. There was a brief silence, heavy with the kind of tension that usually precedes an explosion or a particularly messy dismemberment.


    ¡°Well,¡± Saja said, standing and dusting off her hands, ¡°that wasn¡¯t so¡ª¡±


    The lid flew open with a deafening crack. A wave of dark energy burst forth, rippling through the chamber and extinguishing every torch in an instant. The adventurers were plunged into a suffocating darkness, pierced only by the sudden, guttural roar of something that had spent an eternity trapped in a wooden coffin and was understandably annoyed about it.


    When the light returned¡ªcourtesy of a sputtering spell hastily cast by Nimeia¡ªthe box was empty. Empty, save for a short, wild-eyed man who stood atop it, his hair a riotous tangle and his robes so filthy they could have been mistaken for compost. He clutched a crooked staff in one hand and wore an expression that suggested he had been rudely awoken from a nap that had lasted several millennia.


    ¡°What is this?¡± The man¡¯s voice was hoarse but filled with wonder, his wild eyes darting between the adventurers and the now-open box. ¡°I¡¯m free? Truly free? Who¡ªno, what are you to have undone the seals of my prison?¡±


    Saja crossed her arms, eyeing him with curiosity. ¡°Adventurers,¡± she said plainly. ¡°We found the box, poked around a little, and here you are.¡±


    The man blinked at her, then at the glowing remnants of the enchantments on the box. ¡°Poked around...?¡± His brow furrowed for a moment before smoothing with realization. ¡°Ah! A clever ruse. You play the role of bumbling wanderers to mask your power¡ªwise. Breaking the seals on this prison would require a mastery of magic far beyond the ordinary. Tell me, which among you is the archmage?¡±Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.


    Nimeia shifted uncomfortably, her hand brushing the hilt of her dagger. ¡°None of us. We¡¯re not archmages.¡±


    ¡°Hmm.¡± He squinted at her, as if trying to see through an illusion. ¡°Curious. What year is it?¡±


    Nimeia hesitated, glancing at the others before answering. ¡°It¡¯s 11077 EM.¡±


    The man froze, his eyes widening. ¡°Eleven thousand...seventy-seven? From the End of Magic? That would mean...¡± His voice trailed off as he began to calculate, his lips moving silently. Then his expression changed, a mix of awe and despair washing over his face. ¡°Nine thousand years,¡± he whispered. ¡°I have been imprisoned for nine thousand years.¡±


    Vesper shifted uncomfortably. ¡°That¡¯s...a long time.¡±


    ¡°A long time?¡± the man repeated, his voice rising slightly. ¡°Do you understand what nine thousand years means? Entire empires have risen and fallen. The fabric of reality itself may have shifted. I¡¯ve missed¡ª¡± He stopped abruptly, his expression turning sharp. ¡°Tell me, did the war of the liches occur?¡±


    Nimeia frowned. ¡°Not that I¡¯ve heard of.¡±


    The man groaned, running a hand through his tangled hair. ¡°Of course not. Nine millennia, and they couldn¡¯t even get their crap together. What have they been doing?¡±


    ¡°Well,¡± Saja said, ¡°there¡¯ve been plagues, famines, big wars between kingdoms. Oh, and...someone figured out better ways to grow potatoes.¡±


    The man stared at her, his face a mask of disbelief. ¡°Potatoes? Potatoes? Nine thousand years of progress, and you¡¯re telling me that potatoes are the pinnacle of civilization¡¯s achievements?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not all bad,¡± Nimeia offered cautiously. ¡°There¡¯s magic. A lot of magic in the world now.¡±


    ¡°Yes, there is magic,¡± he said, his tone softening as he looked at the remnants of his prison. ¡°And yet, you are the ones who freed me. You must be more than you seem. Tell me¡ªwhat did you touch to break the spell?¡±


    Saja shrugged. ¡°Red rune.¡±


    The man groaned, slapping his forehead. ¡°Of course. Sharrzaman¡¯s arrogance. He always over-thought his traps.¡±


    ¡°Who¡¯s Sharrzaman?¡± Nimeia asked.


    ¡°My betrayer,¡± the man said, his voice low and bitter. ¡°The one who sealed me away, the one who feared my power. But I will have my revenge.¡± He straightened¡ªor tried to, though his hunched posture and filthy robes made the gesture less grand than he intended. ¡°But first, I must regain my strength and standing in this world.¡±


    Saja raised an eyebrow. ¡°How are you gonna do that?¡±


    ¡°Ah, that is my concern, not yours,¡± he said, waving a hand dismissively. ¡°You have done your part, whether intentionally or not, and for that, I thank you.¡±


    He raised his staff¡ªor rather, a gnarled stick he seemed to have picked up somewhere¡ªand muttered an incantation. A faint ripple of energy surrounded him, and he began to vanish. Before he disappeared completely, he turned back to them, his voice tinged with curiosity. ¡°Tell me one more thing¡ªhow did you find me?¡±


    ¡°Luck,¡± Saja said. ¡°And a little curiosity.¡±


    ¡°Interesting,¡± he murmured, and then, with a faint shimmer, he was gone.


    For a moment, the chamber was silent. Then Saja broke the tension. ¡°Well. That was...anticlimactic.¡±


    ¡°You just unleashed a nine-thousand-year-old wizard,¡± Nimeia snapped. ¡°And you¡¯re calling it anticlimactic?¡±.


    Vesper let out a deep sigh, the kind that spoke volumes without words¡ªan unmistakable acknowledgment that they had just done something profoundly, irrevocably stupid.


    ¡°He wasn¡¯t very impressive,¡± Saja said with a shrug. ¡°But...potatoes? Really?¡±


    And so, with the box now empty and the ruins eerily silent once more, the three adventurers did what adventurers do best: argued about whose fault it was, and completely failed to grasp the enormity of what they had just set in motion.


    Far away, in a cave that smelled faintly of bat guano and despair, Krungus sat cross-legged on a pile of rocks, muttering to himself. ¡°Nine thousand years,¡± he grumbled. ¡°Nine thousand years in that cursed box, and now I¡¯ve got to figure out where to find Sharrzaman. Probably holed up in some gaudy tower, the pretentious bastard...¡±


    He sighed, rubbing his temples with a hand that was already trembling with the onset of a headache. ¡°At least they opened the box,¡± he muttered. ¡°Morons, the lot of em, but useful morons.¡±


    And with that, Krungus began to plan. Or, at least, he tried to. It was difficult to focus when one hadn¡¯t been on this plane in nine millennia, and he found himself distracted by an unfamiliar craving.


    ¡°Potatoes,¡± he muttered, his lip curling in disgust. ¡°What the hell are potatoes?¡±

 Fool

    Krungus stood on a windswept cliff, the air crisp and bracing against his face. Behind him, the sea crashed angrily against jagged rocks, a sound he might have found poetic if he weren¡¯t so profoundly irritated. His robes flapped noisily in the wind, and he clutched his crooked staff as though it might keep him from being blown away.


    Teleporting, as it turned out, was not like riding a bicycle. Nine thousand years of disuse had left his magical precision...lacking. After three misfires¡ªone into a swamp, one into a very confused chicken coop, and one into what he was fairly certain had been someone¡¯s bathing chamber¡ªhe had finally managed to land somewhere that looked vaguely familiar.


    ¡°Progress,¡± he muttered to himself. ¡°If by progress, one means landing in the approximate region instead of, say, someone¡¯s breakfast.¡±


    He straightened, tapping his staff against the ground and muttering a soft incantation. The spell was meant to orient him, to point him toward the great nexus of magic that should still pulse at the heart of Aelintheldaar¡ªthe City of Cities. His crowning achievement. His legacy. The thought of seeing it again, after so long, brought a flicker of warmth to his otherwise sour mood.


    ¡°Surely, they haven¡¯t ruined it,¡± he said aloud, as though convincing himself. ¡°Nine thousand years is a long time, but I engineered it too well for even the most idiotic of civilizations to muck it up.¡±


    The spell completed with a faint hum, and a glowing arrow appeared in the air before him, pointing southward. Krungus grinned¡ªa crooked, toothy thing¡ªand began his journey.


    <hr>


    The walk was not particularly pleasant.


    Krungus quickly discovered that the world had changed in ways both subtle and irritating. The landscape was dotted with strange, uneven hills where once there had been pristine flatlands. Rivers had rerouted themselves, creating inconvenient barriers that required either detours or improvisational magic.


    And then there were the people.


    He encountered a ragged caravan on the second day of his journey¡ªa motley group of merchants and mercenaries trudging along a dusty road. Their wagons were laden with goods, their guards bristling with poorly maintained weapons. Krungus attempted polite conversation, hoping to gather information, but quickly abandoned the effort after the fourth person called him ¡°old man¡± and suggested he buy a new robe.


    ¡°Old man,¡± he muttered bitterly as he stomped away. ¡°I am an archwizard, not some doddering hedge mage. If these cretins had the sense to recognize genius when they saw it¡ª¡±


    He stopped mid-rant, his eyes catching a glimpse of something ahead.


    It was faint at first, a shimmer on the horizon, but as he crested the next hill, the sight took his breath away. There, in the distance, stood the City of Cities.


    Even from this vantage point, it was immense. Towers pierced the clouds, their spires glinting faintly in the sunlight. Walls stretched for miles, punctuated by massive gates that thrummed with latent energy. The city sprawled across the landscape, a living monument to his brilliance.


    Krungus allowed himself a rare moment of pride. He had built this. Well, not built exactly¡ªmore like perfected it while lesser beings did the manual labor. But still. This was his vision brought to life, his masterpiece.


    Krungus quickened his pace, the anticipation building with every step. He imagined the streets bustling with scholars and artisans, the air alive with the hum of magic. He imagined statues in his honor, libraries filled with tomes chronicling his achievements. Surely, his name would be revered, his contributions remembered.


    As he drew closer, however, he began to notice...details.


    The first was the smell.


    Even from the outskirts, the city exuded a pungent aroma¡ªa rancid mix of unwashed bodies, rotting garbage, and something faintly metallic that Krungus couldn¡¯t quite place. It was the kind of smell that clung to the back of your throat and refused to let go.This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    The second was the noise.


    Far from the harmonious bustle he had envisioned, the city¡¯s sounds were chaotic and jarring. Shouts and curses mingled with the clatter of wagon wheels and the distant wail of what he could only assume was some kind of warning bell.


    And then there was the city itself.


    As Krungus approached the gates, his excitement gave way to unease. The walls, once pristine and glowing with runes of protection, were cracked and weathered, their enchantments flickering like dying embers. The gates, enormous slabs of enchanted metal, were tarnished and dented, their once-impressive carvings obscured by grime and graffiti.


    ¡°This...this cannot be right,¡± he muttered, his pace slowing as he passed through the gates and into the city proper.


    Inside, the scene was even worse. The streets were narrow and overcrowded, lined with ramshackle buildings that leaned at precarious angles. Vendors shouted over each other, hawking wares of dubious quality. Beggars crouched in shadowy corners, their outstretched hands ignored by passersby. The air was thick with smoke and the acrid stench of industry.


    Krungus stopped in the middle of the street, turning in a slow circle as he took it all in. This was not the city he had built. This was a mockery, a twisted parody of his vision.


    ¡°What...what happened here?¡± he whispered, his voice barely audible over the din.


    ¡°Oi!¡±


    Krungus turned to see a burly man lumbering toward him, his face half-hidden beneath a scruffy beard. The man wore a tattered uniform that might have once belonged to the city guard, though the insignia had been replaced with a crude patch depicting a snarling wolf.


    ¡°You lost, old man?¡± the guard sneered, his hand resting on the hilt of a rusted sword.


    Krungus bristled. ¡°I am not lost,¡± he snapped. ¡°I am Krungus, the architect of this city! The very stones you stand on were laid according to my designs!¡±


    The guard stared at him for a moment, then burst into laughter. ¡°Krungus, eh? Well, your ¡®designs¡¯ must¡¯ve been real shoddy, ¡¯cause this place is a dump.¡±


    ¡°Shoddy?¡± Krungus¡¯s voice rose, his temper flaring. ¡°I infused this city with more magic than your primitive mind could comprehend! It was a utopia, a beacon of civilization!¡±


    ¡°Yeah, well,¡± the guard said, smirking. ¡°Ain¡¯t a utopia anymore, is it?¡± He spat on the ground near Krungus¡¯s feet, then turned and lumbered away.


    Krungus stared after him, his hands trembling with rage. ¡°A beacon of civilization,¡± he repeated to himself, his voice hollow. ¡°What...what have they done?¡±


    <hr>


    For hours, Krungus wandered the city, his initial disbelief giving way to a slow, simmering fury. Everywhere he looked, he saw evidence of neglect and corruption. The great aqueducts, once a marvel of engineering, now dripped with foul-smelling sludge. The magical streetlights, which should have illuminated the city in a soft, golden glow, flickered weakly or lay dark entirely.


    He passed through the market district, where merchants bickered and cheated each other with shameless abandon. He passed through the residential quarters, where families crammed into crumbling tenements and children played in streets littered with refuse. He passed through the once-grand plazas, now filled with shoddy stalls and drunken revelers. He passed through an area where he could¡¯ve sworn one of Bahumbus¡¯ charging stations for the sentries used to be. No sign of sentries, that was for sure.


    By the time he reached the central square, Krungus felt more exhausted than he had in centuries. He sank onto a cracked stone bench, his staff resting across his knees, and buried his face in his hands.


    ¡°This was supposed to be my legacy,¡± he muttered. ¡°My gift to the world. The City of Cities was meant to stand the test of time, to inspire awe and admiration for generations. And now...now it¡¯s this.¡±


    He looked up, his gaze falling on a nearby statue. It was one of the few remnants of the city¡¯s original grandeur¡ªa towering figure of a robed man, his staff raised high in a gesture of triumph. Krungus¡¯s heart leapt for a moment, recognizing the familiar figure.


    But as he approached, he realized the truth.


    Someone had defaced the statue, carving crude graffiti into its base. The once-proud features of the figure had been chipped away, replaced with grotesque caricatures. Worst of all, someone had scrawled a single word across the statue¡¯s chest in bright red paint:


    ¡°FOOL.¡±


    Krungus stared at the defaced monument, his breath catching in his throat. He felt a strange mix of emotions¡ªanger, sorrow, disbelief¡ªall swirling together in a maelstrom of frustration.


    ¡°Fool,¡± he repeated softly, his voice tinged with bitterness. ¡°Perhaps they¡¯re right.¡±


    For a long moment, he stood in silence, staring at the ruins of his legacy. Then, with a deep breath, he turned away and began walking.


    He didn¡¯t know where he was going, but one thing was certain: he couldn¡¯t leave things as they were.


    Krungus had built this city once. Perhaps, just perhaps, he could rebuild it again.


    But first, he thought, glancing at the graffiti-covered statue, someone¡¯s getting turned into a toad or something.

 Nobody

    The phone cord tangled around Eugene¡¯s fingers as he cradled the receiver against his ear. The patterned hum of the dial tone echoed faintly as he replayed the conversation that had just ended.


    ¡°Sorry, man. Something came up. Next week, for sure,¡± Matt¡¯s voice had said, tinny and apologetic.


    Eugene sighed. That was the third cancellation this month.


    He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and glanced at the table in the corner of his tiny living room. A hexagonal grid sprawled across its surface, scattered with painted miniatures frozen mid-charge or mid-incantation. Next to them sat his DM binder, meticulously organized, and the thick, spiral-bound rulebook he had almost memorized.


    It wasn¡¯t just a game to Eugene. It was the game. His players relied on him to craft intricate worlds, to breathe life into heroes and villains alike, to weave storylines that left them laughing, arguing, or gasping in awe. Yet, lately, it felt like no one else cared.


    ¡°Next week, for sure,¡± Eugene muttered under his breath, mimicking Matt¡¯s tone.


    He hung up the phone, the receiver clicking into place. For a moment, he sat there in the quiet, the distant sound of his upstairs neighbor¡¯s TV barely audible.


    It wasn¡¯t that Eugene minded solitude. He thrived on it, in fact, with his books stacked high and the local library¡¯s return slips tucked neatly as bookmarks. Jung, Wolfe, Le Guin¡ªthey all had a place on his cluttered shelves, nestled among well-worn VHS tapes of fantasy epics and cult classics. But tonight was supposed to be different. Tonight, Eugene had planned to sit at the head of the table, clutching his twenty-sided die, commanding attention like the dungeon masters he idolized.


    Now, Friday night stretched ahead of him, void and dull.


    He tugged at the hem of his Figeraldo¡¯s Video polo shirt, still slightly wrinkled from his earlier shift. The idea of going back there, even for a rental, made his skin itch. He needed something to distract himself, something new.


    Eugene grabbed his coat and keys. ¡°Blockbuster it is,¡± he muttered, stepping out into the cool evening air.


    <hr>


    The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly as Eugene pushed through the glass doors of Blockbuster. He wasn¡¯t proud of being here; Figeraldo¡¯s prided itself on its homey charm, a place where the staff actually cared about movies, unlike this corporate chain with its endless rows of plastic cases. Still, Eugene figured he could allow himself this one indiscretion.The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.


    He wandered the aisles, trailing his fingers along the spines of DVDs. Big-budget action movies sat cheek by jowl with rom-coms, horror flicks, and straight-to-video oddities. Nothing jumped out at him yet, but the browsing was half the fun.


    ¡°Hey, babe, how about you give me your number?¡±


    The voice came from the far side of the store, where a group of teenagers stood by the comedy section. Eugene turned his head slightly, catching sight of the source: a man in his mid-thirties, broad-shouldered and scruffy, leering at two high school girls.


    The girls exchanged a glance and rolled their eyes. ¡°Hard pass,¡± one of them said, her tone dripping with disdain.


    ¡°Come on,¡± the man persisted, his grin widening. ¡°Don¡¯t play hard to get.¡±


    Eugene froze, his stomach twisting. He hated confrontation. More than that, he hated men like this one¡ªloud, entitled, the kind of guy who thought the world owed him attention.


    One of the girls turned on her heel, her friend close behind. ¡°Creep,¡± she muttered under her breath as they walked away.


    Eugene snickered, barely more than a puff of air through his nose. He couldn¡¯t help it. The man¡¯s expression¡ªequal parts confusion and wounded pride¡ªwas ridiculous.


    ¡°What¡¯re you laughing at?¡±


    The man¡¯s gaze snapped to Eugene, who instantly regretted his tiny act of defiance. He opened his mouth to respond, but no sound came out.


    ¡°You think that¡¯s funny?¡± the man demanded, stepping closer. His voice was sharp now, cutting through the ambient noise of the store. ¡°You got something to say?¡±


    ¡°N-no,¡± Eugene stammered, taking a step back. ¡°I¡ªI didn¡¯t mean¡ª¡±


    Before he could finish, the man¡¯s fist shot out, catching him square in the nose.


    Pain exploded across Eugene¡¯s face as he stumbled backward, his vision swimming. He hit the floor hard, the taste of copper flooding his mouth. Around him, the world was a blur of fluorescent light and muffled gasps.


    The man loomed over him, his fists clenched, his face twisted with anger. Eugene struggled to focus, to move, but his body felt heavy, distant.


    And then, it happened.


    A strange warmth bloomed in his chest, spreading outward like the first rays of dawn. His breath hitched, and for a moment, he thought he might be having a heart attack.


    But it wasn¡¯t pain he felt¡ªit was something else, something vast and overwhelming.


    Light poured from his mouth and eyes, brilliant and blinding. The man staggered back, shielding his face, while the rest of the store erupted into chaos.


    Eugene didn¡¯t scream. He didn¡¯t even feel afraid. The light consumed him, filled him, until he was nothing but brightness and heat and power.


    And then, with a deafening crack, he was gone.


    The Blockbuster fell silent, save for the hum of the lights and the faint whimper of the man who had struck him.


    Eugene had vanished, leaving nothing behind but a faint scorch mark on the carpet and the lingering scent of ozone.