《Office Hero》 Prologue: The Resume Sir Benginold the Strong, Slayer of Vyrathis the Devourer, Vanquisher of Villains, Wymarc of the Iron Sword (Ben) Sunstone Manor, Cloudwhisper Peaks, Earth | [email address non-existent] | Home: Where ever evil festers / Cell: Where I send the evil ones Objective To obtain a Mail Clerk Specialist position within a dynamic and forward-thinking logistics organization, where I can utilize my proven abilities in rapid information processing, strategic data implementation, and unwavering commitment to mission success, ultimately contributing to the overarching objective of¡­ global optimization and preemptive threat mitigation. Skills Unrelenting Courage: Demonstrated capacity to maintain peak performance and unwavering focus under conditions of extreme duress, including but not limited to: dragonfire exposure, facing down hordes of goblins, and enduring prolonged siege conditions. Adaptable to office-related stressors such as looming deadlines and malfunctioning equipment. Tactical Genius: Exhibits exceptional strategic foresight and analytical capabilities, consistently developing and executing multi-pronged approaches to complex problem domains. Adept at anticipating potential challenges and proactively mitigating risks through meticulous planning and resource optimization. Capable of developing flowcharts and contingency plans for data processing workflows. Physical Prowess: Possesses superior physical conditioning, enabling rapid and efficient task execution. Exceptional hand-eye coordination translates to swift and accurate data input. Proven ability to maintain peak performance during extended periods of intense activity ¨C ideal for meeting tight data entry deadlines and marathon data processing sessions. Code of Honor: Operates under a strict personal code of conduct emphasizing integrity, loyalty, and selfless service. Prioritizes the well-being of the team and the ethical execution of all duties above personal recognition or material reward. Aligns strongly with corporate values of transparency, accountability, and unwavering commitment to data accuracy. Experience Wymarc of the Iron Sword, Freelance Heroic Services (Ageless to Present - Project-Based Engagements, Flexible Rates Negotiable) Responsibilities: Operated as a highly sought-after freelance heroic consultant and direct intervention specialist, providing bespoke solutions to a diverse clientele across numerous geopolitical regions of Earth. Core competencies included: Proactive Threat Mitigation & Risk Management: Expert in identifying, assessing, and neutralizing high-level threats, ranging from large-scale monster infestations to rogue magical entities on Earth. Consistently achieved a 100% threat elimination rate with minimal collateral damage on Earth. Conflict Resolution & Security Consulting: Proficient in de-escalating conflicts, apprehending high-value targets (villains) on Earth, and implementing robust security protocols to safeguard client assets and personnel globally. Developed and executed security strategies for kingdoms, villages, and individual clients on Earth, resulting in a demonstrable reduction in hostile incidents across various terrestrial regions. Strategic Defense & Infrastructure Protection: Managed and executed large-scale defense projects, including fortifying kingdom borders and protecting vital infrastructure against external threats on Earth. Successfully defended client kingdoms against numerous invasion attempts and siege scenarios across Earth. Inter-Kingdom Dispute Mediation & Diplomatic Intervention: Facilitated peaceful resolutions to complex inter-kingdom disputes through skilled negotiation, impartial arbitration, and strategic deployment of heroic interventions across Earth. Cultivated strong client relationships and maintained a consistently high rate of client satisfaction across diverse cultural and political landscapes across Earth. Supreme Commander, Armies of Earth (Various Campaigns) (Extensive & Documented Track Record of Success in Large-Scale Operations - References Extant) Responsibilities: Held ultimate command and executive responsibility for all aspects of large-scale military operations across Earth. Key achievements and responsibilities included: Strategic Leadership & Visionary Direction: Provided overarching strategic vision and decisive leadership for complex, multi-year campaigns, consistently achieving ambitious organizational goals (military victories) across diverse and challenging global theaters on Earth. Large-Scale Team Management & Performance Optimization: Directed and managed vast, multi-national, and multi-functional teams (armies) of up to 500,000+ personnel, optimizing team performance, fostering collaborative environments, and ensuring consistent achievement of mission-critical objectives. Implemented innovative "motivational speaking" techniques resulting in consistently high morale and exceeding performance KPIs, even under battlefield conditions. Resource Allocation & Logistical Expertise: Managed and optimized the allocation of vast and complex resource portfolios, including personnel, armaments, provisions, and logistical supply chains spanning entire continents of Earth. Developed and implemented pioneering logistical frameworks that ensured seamless resource delivery, even under highly contested and rapidly evolving operational environments. Strategic Negotiation & Stakeholder Management: Successfully negotiated and brokered numerous high-stakes treaties, alliances, and ceasefires with diverse and often adversarial stakeholders (kingdoms, factions, monstrous entities) across Earth. Demonstrated exceptional diplomatic skills and a proven ability to build consensus and achieve mutually beneficial outcomes in complex, high-pressure negotiation scenarios. Lead Investigator, Vyrathis the Devourer Incident Response Team (Classified Project - Confidentiality Agreements in Place - Project Duration and Specifics Available Under NDA) Responsibilities: Selected to lead and manage a highly sensitive and strictly confidential Incident Response Team (IRT) tasked with investigating and resolving a business-critical, existential-level threat event (codenamed "Vyrathis Devourer Incident"). This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there. Core responsibilities and achievements included: Confidential Threat Assessment & Vulnerability Analysis: Conducted a comprehensive, top-secret threat assessment to identify the nature, scope, and potential impact of the "Vyrathis Devourer Incident" on organizational stability and long-term viability. Utilized advanced intelligence gathering techniques and proprietary analytical methodologies to develop a highly accurate threat profile and vulnerability matrix. Strategic Containment & Neutralization Planning: Developed and spearheaded a complex, multi-phase strategic plan for containing, mitigating, and ultimately neutralizing the "Vyrathis Devourer Incident," prioritizing minimal disruption to core operations and maximum stakeholder protection. Plan execution resulted in complete and permanent resolution of the incident, preventing catastrophic organizational failure and ensuring business continuity. Cross-Functional Team Leadership & Stakeholder Management (Confidential): Effectively led and managed a highly specialized, cross-functional team of experts (details classified), fostering a culture of discretion, collaboration, and unwavering commitment to operational security. Managed communication with high-level stakeholders (names redacted), ensuring confidentiality and maintaining stakeholder confidence throughout the crisis. Post-Incident Analysis & Preventative Protocol Development: Led a comprehensive post-incident analysis to identify root causes and systemic vulnerabilities exposed by the "Vyrathis Devourer Incident." Developed and implemented enhanced security protocols and preventative measures to safeguard against future incidents of similar magnitude. Resulting protocols became the new industry standard for existential threat mitigation and crisis response. Education The Shield-Hall of Ashur, Upon the River Euphrates (Mesopotamia, Ancient Earth - Ante-Diluvian Epoch) - Valorous Shield-Bearer Certification (Highest Acclaim) Curriculum Highlights: Grandmaster-Level Swordsmanship & Weaponry: Specialization in Warfare of the Ancients (circa 8,000 BCE). Advanced Battle Tactics & Strategic Host Deployment: Emphasis on Pre-Bronze Age Combat & Siegecraft. Bestiary & Xenological Hazard Mitigation: Comprehensive Studies in Creatures of Myth & Antediluvian Threats. Ancient Warrior Ethos & Principles of Shield-Kinship: Emphasis on Courage, Steadfastness, and the Protection of Hearth & Kin ¨C Core Tenets of Ashurian Martial Tradition. The Circle of Cunning Weavers, By the Great Ziggurat (Mesopotamia, Ancient Earth - Ante-Diluvian Epoch) - Scroll of Hidden Lore & Divinatory Arts (Exemplar Standing) Areas of Scholarly Pursuit: Archaic & Forgotten Tongues & Scriptural Decipherment: Expertise in Proto-Sumerian Cuneiform, Akkadian Hieroglyphs, and Elder Speech of the Serpent People. Esoteric Monster Lore & Vulnerability Research: Dissertation: "Comparative Ethology of Apex Predator Entities of the Ante-Diluvian Megafauna." Antiquarian Artifact Identification, Cataloging & Applied Thaumaturgy: Proficiency in Imbued Relic Identification and Pre-Dynastic Rune-Magic Application. Predictive Prophecy & Strategic Foresight (Theoretical & Limited Practical Application - Seer''s Guild Assessment: Raw Talent Evident, but Practical Application in Mundane Forecasting Requires Further Study). References God: The Celestial Bureaucracy (Office of the Almighty, Department of¡­ Well, It''s Complicated) - Contacting this reference may require navigating¡­ extensive channels. Please note: Response to reference requests from the Mortal Plane are not guaranteed, and often subject to¡­ divine whim. For best results, we recommend prayerful supplication in triplicate, submitted during a favorable astrological alignment. No direct phone line available. Do NOT attempt to visit in person. Her Radiant Majesty, Titania, Queen of the Summer Court (Avalon Sector, Faerie Domain - Jurisdiction Extends Beyond Human Comprehension). - Due to inter-realm diplomatic protocols and the¡­ ethereal nature of Faerie communication systems, direct contact is strongly discouraged. Inquiries may be submitted via authorized channelers only (see Appendix J for list of approved Faerie Liaisons ¨C note: most are currently unavailable or have been lost to the mists of time). Please be advised: Queen Titania operates on a¡­ different temporal framework. Response SLAs are¡­ non-standard. Frankly, for a Mail Clerk Specialist verification, we advise against this reference unless you have literally eons to spare. Merlin Ambrosius, (Self-Described) Arch-Mage, Prophetic Counselor & Part-Time Transmuter of Lead into¡­ Well, Mostly Lead (Current Status: Existence Unverified by Modern Parapsychology - Anecdotal Evidence Suggests¡­ Maybe?). - Reference Inquiries Strongly Discouraged: Merlin Ambrosius is known for¡­ eccentric communication habits (telepathic riddles, cryptic prophecies delivered via enchanted badger, etc.). Response reliability is¡­ highly variable. Furthermore, veracity of information provided cannot be independently validated (source is, after all, Merlin). Employer assumes no liability for any temporal paradoxes or existential anomalies resulting from contacting this reference. The Innumerable Gratitude-Bearing Peasantry (Globally Distributed, Spanning Millennia of Service ¨C Representative Sample: Designated "Villagers of Oakhaven" for Practicality). - Reference Acquisition Protocol: Contacting this reference group presents¡­ unique challenges. Due to demographic scale and temporal distribution, direct outreach is logistically infeasible. Alternative approaches under consideration include: Crowd-sourced divination, necromantic polling, and large-scale historical data mining (ethics review board pending). Please note: Existential status of individual respondents may vary. Response veracity and¡­ coherent testimonial articulation cannot be guaranteed across all demographics. Employer assumes no responsibility for any¡­ unforeseen consequences arising from necromantic reference checking. Use extreme caution. Chapter 1 The battlefield vanished. One moment, Sir Benginold the Strong stood knee-deep in ash and splintered bone, his greatsword steaming with yet another dragon¡¯s blood. The next, he found himself in a chamber that defied all reason. It was neither hallowed hall nor celestial paradise, but a stark, cold-lit vault that smelled faintly of burnt herbs and dread. The walls stretched into eternity, their pallid faces unbroken save for a shimmering, bright red eldritch script that read NOW SERVING: HEROIC REQUESTS. Beneath it sat a being who might have been a god, if gods wore rumpled tunics and glared at stone tablets as though they¡¯d spat in his mead. ¡°Next,¡± droned the god, not looking up. Ben stared. The creature¡¯s voice echoed as if spoken through a warhorn, and its face¡ªif it had one¡ªrippled like a reflection in a storm-tossed lake. ¡°Is this¡­ the afterlife?¡± Ben rasped, his throat raw from battle cries and dragon smoke. ¡°I don¡¯t remember being slain¡­¡± The god sighed. A sound like glaciers calving. ¡°Divine Intervention Department. Request filing only. State your business.¡± Ben glanced down. His armor, still streaked with gore, felt suddenly ridiculous. ¡°There¡¯s a¡­ thing. A shadow. It¡¯s unraveling the sky. Crops are dying, rivers¡ª¡± ¡°Entropy incursion. Tier Five existential threat,¡± the god interrupted, flipping a page on his tablet. ¡°Standard resolution: heroic sacrifice. You¡¯ll need to¡ª¡± ¡°Another sacrifice?¡± Ben¡¯s gauntlet creaked as he gripped his sword. ¡°I¡¯ve nearly died seven times this decade, once I actually did. Do you know what dying does to a man?¡± ¡°Heroic Liability Waiver, Clause 12-B: ¡®Soul recalibration post-death.¡¯¡± The god waved a dismissive hand. ¡°Not my department.¡± Ben¡¯s eye twitched. Centuries of battles, of saving ungrateful kingdoms and listening to bards mangle his exploits into drinking songs, and this was his reward? The god, noticing Ben¡¯s confusion, ¡°The gods, in their infinite pettiness, do what is needed. Here souls are processed, not praised. Welcome to the Divine Department of Redundancy.¡± ¡°Just¡­ fix it, help me save the world,¡± Ben growled, gesturing vaguely upward as if the crumbling sky might hear. ¡°Save the world. Whatever it takes. Make. It. Stop. Tell me what I must do!¡± The god scribbled on his tablet. ¡°Request noted: ¡®Make it stop.¡¯ Processing¡­¡± ¡°Wait, that¡¯s not¡ª¡± ¡°Request fulfilled.¡± The god snapped his fingers. A sound like a thousand portcullises slamming shut echoed through the void. ¡°Entropy incursion neutralized. World saved. Next!¡± Ben gaped. ¡°That¡¯s it? No epic battle? No¡­ I don¡¯t know, fanfare?¡± The god leaned forward, his form flickering like a mirage. ¡°Fanfare requires a Tier Three Ceremonial Upgrade. Your account¡±¡ªhe tapped the tablet¡ª¡°has insufficient cosmic loyalty points.¡± ¡°Loyalty points?¡± Ben¡¯s voice rose. ¡°I¡¯ve saved the world nine times!¡± ¡°Eight and a half.¡± The god squinted at his notes. ¡°The ¡®Great Goblin War of Tuesday¡¯ was technically a skirmish. World not in danger. Now¡±¡ªhe produced a crisp scroll¡ª¡°your parting gift.¡± Ben stared at the document. The header read: SIR BENGINOLD THE STRONG, SLAYER OF VYRATHIS THE DEVOURER: MAIL CLERK ¡°Resume? This appears a¡­ scroll of servitude?¡± ¡°Reincarnation protocol.¡± The god¡¯s tone suggested he¡¯d explained this a thousand times to a thousand baffled heroes. ¡°Office job. Moderate-deductible healthcare. Your own personal mug provided. Guard it.¡± Ben¡¯s sword clattered to the floor¡ªor where the floor should have been. ¡°I¡¯m a dragonslayer!¡± ¡°Transferable skills.¡± The god ticked off points on his fingers. ¡°Swordsmanship equates to scribing speed. Battle strategy: ledger management. Dragon-slaying:¡­¡± He paused. ¡°Conflict resolution.¡± ¡°This is madness!¡± Ben roared. ¡°I demand to speak to your liege lord!¡± The god¡¯s form solidified abruptly, his features sharpening into something cold and ancient. ¡°I,¡± he said, and the word vibrated in Ben¡¯s teeth, ¡°am the supervisor.¡± The scroll burst into golden flames, reforming as a bronze sigil pinned to Ben¡¯s breastplate. NAME: Sir Benginold the Strong, Slayer of Vyrathis the Devourer, Vanquisher of Villains, Wymarc of the Iron Sword (Ben) TITLE: Mail Clerk Specialist STATUS: Probationary ¡°Good luck,¡± said the god. ¡°When you get the call, answer as you¡¯ve always done, Benginold.¡± Ben¡¯s armor dissolved into a strange tunic of coarse, scratchy wool. His sword became a clay goblet etched with runes: ¡°World¡¯s Okayest Employee.¡± ¡°DON¡¯T FORGET¡­IT MOCKS¡±, still hung in Ben''s ears, fading like the echo of a warhorn blown in a canyon. The coldness of the vault pressed in on him, then seemed to ripple outwards. Under his feet, the smooth, solid ground began to shift, a rough gray texture rising to meet his gaze. Ben stood at the edge of the Cobblestones (cracked parking lot), his uncomfortable footwear (dress shoes) grinding stray gravel beneath his soles. Above him, Obsidian Towers clawed at the heavens, their mirrored scales (glass facades) reflecting the light of the sun. A Horseless Carriage (delivery truck) roared past, belching Burnt Alchemical Sludge (diesel fumes) that coiled around Ben¡¯s legs like smoke-serpents. He snarled, swatting the air as if to cleave an invisible foe. This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there. The tower¡¯s jaw (revolving door) spun relentlessly, swallowing mortals (office workers) whole. A shieldmaiden (woman in a pantsuit) stumbled out, clutching a Goblet (Starbucks cup) like a holy relic. Ben watched, brow furrowed, as the door¡¯s crystalline fangs (glass panels) snapped shut behind her. ¡°Sorcery,¡± he muttered, his hand drifting to the nonexistent hilt of Dragonsdeathbringer, his greatsword. Horseless Carriages (cars) clashed in the Battleground of Eternal Roar (intersection), their blinded cyclops eyes (headlights) flaring. A charioteer (taxi driver) leaned on his War Horn (horn), the sound a wyvern¡¯s shriek. Ben recoiled, his Mug of Mockery (World¡¯s Okayest Employee) sloshing Bean Elixir (coffee) onto his Polyester Straitjacket (suit). ¡°You dare challenge me, steel-skinned cur?¡± Ben bellowed, raising the mug like a mace. The taxi sped off, its Runic Stamp (bumper sticker¡ª¡°Honk If You¡¯re Horny!¡±) flashing mockingly. A tide of mortals swept past, their Palm-Sized Scrying Stones (phones) casting sickly light on their hollow faces. One scribe (teenager in earbuds) collided with Ben¡¯s shoulder, his Ink Quill (vape pen) clattering to the asphalt. ¡°You tread where dragons fear, whelp!¡± Ben barked, but the boy scrambled away, muttering ¡°Fucking weirdo¡­¡± Near the tower¡¯s base, merchants (food vendors) peddled Cauldron-Cursed Sustenance (halal cart chicken) from wagons (food trucks) adorned with Glyphs of Gluttony (¡°$5 LUNCH SPECIAL!¡±). The stench of Grease of the Damned (fryer oil) mingled with the metallic tang of the Tower¡¯s Breath (AC exhaust). Wind howled through the canyons (skyscraper alleys), carrying the Whispering Winds. Ben¡¯s cloak (blazer) flapped behind him like a tattered banner as he craned his neck to study the glowing slabs (office windows) far above. ¡°A thousand eyes peer from this Titan¡¯s Helm,¡± he growled, spotting shadows (workers) toiling behind the glass. ¡°Yet none see the chains that bind them.¡± Ben lingered, his calloused palm pressed to the Obsidian Tower¡¯s cold flank. Somewhere within, enemies prowled, and shadow beasts sharpened their claws. The city¡¯s Song of the Damned (distant sirens) wailed. ¡°Aye,¡± he said at last, hefting his Mug of Mockery. ¡°Let us storm this false stronghold¡­ and see what treachery it guards.¡± He stood tall. A warrior-king in a world of¡­ of what he wasn¡¯t quite sure yet. The tiny chickens (pigeons) swarmed around Ben¡¯s shoes, their beaks clacking against the Cobblestones (sidewalk) as if auditioning for a role in his ire. ¡°Insolent fowl!¡± Ben barked, thrusting fist at a particularly brazen bird pecking his shoelaces. ¡°In my realm, your kind is roasted over Dragonfire!¡± A cough sounded behind him. Ben whirled, dagger raised, to find a slight mortal clutching a Scroll of Eternal Torment (stained manila folder) to his chest. The man¡¯s Polyester Straitjacket (ill-fitting blazer) hung loose, his Shackles of a Petty God (lanyard badge) labeled Human Recourses¡ªGreg. His eyes darted between Ben¡¯s fist and the Sigil of Servitude (Mail Clerk Specialist: BEN) pinned to Ben¡¯s lapel. ¡°Uh. Ben?¡± Greg adjusted his fogged glasses, retreating a step. ¡°Chad¡ªuh, the Branch Manager¡ªsaid you¡¯d be¡­ towering. I¡¯m supposed to¡­ y¡¯know. Orient you. But first I gotta check in with Lisa. The receptionist.¡± He jabbed a thumb toward the Obsidian Tower¡¯s (office building) spinning mouth, where a shieldmaiden (receptionist) typed furiously behind a Fortress of Polished Stone (marble desk). Ben relaxed his fist, looming over Greg like a siege tower. ¡°You name me servant to this¡­ glass titan?¡± He gestured to the tower, ¡°I am Sir Benginold the Strong, slayer of the Frost Wyrms! My blade thirsts for¡ª¡± ¡°Yep! Great! Slayin¡¯ stuff!¡± Greg interjected, backing toward the Tower. ¡°Just, uh¡­ head to the break room on 3. Follow the exit signs. Lisa¡¯ll print your Sigil (badge), and I¡¯ll meet you after I¡­ appease Chad.¡± ¡°A quest,¡± Ben declared, squaring his shoulders. ¡°At last, a worthy trial and direction!¡± He strode toward the Obsidian Tower, his Boots of Squeaking Betrayal (dress shoes) heralding his approach. The Winged Serfs scattered, one pausing to Tribute (poop) on Greg¡¯s discarded Scroll (folder). The Obsidian Tower¡¯s spinning gateway¡ªa whirling circle of crystalline panels (revolving doors)¡ªclattered like a war machine as Ben approached. His broad shoulders filled the entryway, the door¡¯s momentum grinding to a halt when his frame jammed between two glass partitions. ¡°Treacherous contraption!¡± he bellowed, muscles straining as he forced the door forward with a metallic screech. Mortals (office workers) trapped behind him muttered curses into their Palm-Sized Scrying Stones (phones), while a shieldmaiden (security guard) slapped the emergency stop button. Freed at last, Ben staggered into the Fortress of Polished Stone (lobby), his Boots of Squeaking Betrayal skidding across Dragon-scale tiles (polished marble). He righted himself, adjusting his Sigil of Servitude (crooked employee badge) with a defiant glare at the now-still door. ¡°A feeble trial,¡± he announced to no one in particular, ¡°but I am victorious!¡± Greg, lingering nearby, buried his face in his hands. Chapter 2 Ben¡¯s first moments in the glass and steel hellscape were marked by three things: the ceaseless screech of horseless carriages (cars), the stench of burnt bean elixir (espresso), and the creeping realization that his afterlife had been outsourced to bureaucrats.He stood in the lobby of the obsidian tower, sweat pooling beneath his polyester straitjacket. The witchlights (fluorescent lights) buzzed like a swarm of undead crickets. A line of Nameless shuffled past, clutching steaming clay goblets (mugs) and chattering into palm-sized scrying stones (cell phones). Ben¡¯s own goblet¡ªnow emblazoned with World¡¯s Okayest Employee ¡ª felt like a mockery carved into his very bones.Then he saw her.The receptionist.She sat behind a fortress of polished stone (a desk), her golden braids coiled like a serpent¡¯s nest. Ben approached, his dress shoes squeaking like startled mice. Years of battlefield decorum demanded protocol. He slammed a fist to his chest in a salute worthy of a warlord, bowed deeply¡ªRrrrrrip.The sound echoed. The entire left seam of his suit jacket split open, unleashing a bicep that had once strangled a wyvern. A nearby clerk dropped their goblet. Coffee seeped across the linoleum like a tiny brown river of shame.¡°Greetings, gatekeeper!¡± Ben thundered, pretending not to notice the fabric carnage. ¡°I am Sir Benginold the Strong, Slayer of Vyrathis the Devourer, Bane of the Black Marsh, and¡ª¡±¡°Ben! Right?¡± The woman¡ªLisa, her nameplate declared¡ªdid not look up from her glowing scrying stone. ¡°You¡¯re the new mail clerk. Finally. We¡¯ve been swamped since Greg ate that gluten-free muffin.¡±Ben blinked. Swamped? Had the marshlands breached this realm too?Lisa slid a parchment across the desk. ¡°Sign here, here, and¡­ honestly, just scribble somewhere. HR¡¯s stopped checking.¡±Ben stared at the document. The runes swam before his eyes: NDA, W-2, Employee Handbook. ¡°This¡­ contract binds me to your clan¡¯s service?¡±¡°It¡¯s an NDA. Basically, don¡¯t tweet about the coffee machine¡¯s ¡®haunting.¡¯¡± Lisa¡¯s eyes flicked to his ruined jacket. ¡°Love the look, going for an action hero? Cosplay Friday¡¯s not ¡¯til tomorrow, though.¡±¡°I wear no play,¡± Ben growled, his voice dropping to a graveled battlefield rasp. ¡°These are the shackles of a petty god. Take me to your chieftain. Now.¡±Lisa snorted. ¡°Chad¡¯s in a Zoom. But hey¡ª¡± She held up a finger. ¡°¡ªyou¡¯ll get a one-on-one during onboarding!¡±¡°On¡­ boarding?¡± Ben¡¯s mind flashed to blood-soaked siege ramps, battering rams, the screams of mercenaries. ¡°You mean to storm the gates?¡±¡°It¡¯s just HR paperwork and a benefits slideshow.¡± Lisa jabbed a lacquered nail toward a humming metal portal (elevator). ¡°Third floor. Follow the neon arrows. Oh, and don¡¯t touch the thermostat. Chad¡¯s weird about it.¡±Ben hesitated, clutching his resume like a hostage. ¡°What¡­ is a ¡®TPS report¡¯?¡±Lisa¡¯s smile sharpened. ¡°You¡¯ll beg for mercy by Friday.¡±As Ben turned to leave, Lisa thrust a steaming clay vessel at him. ¡°Welcome latte! Non-dairy, extra vanilla, just like Chad prefers.¡±Ben sniffed the murky brew. It smelled like a bog witch¡¯s toenail tincture. Suspecting poison, he waited until Lisa¡¯s attention returned to her scrying stone and dumped the liquid into a nearby potted fern. The plant shuddered, then wilted.¡°May your roots find peace,¡± Ben muttered gravely.The metal portal (elevator) chimed like a temple bell. Ben stepped inside, shoulders brushing both walls. A Nameless in a striped tunic (graphic designer) scurried in after him, eyes glued to a palm-stone.¡°Which¡­ um¡­ floor?¡± the Nameless squeaked.Ben glared. ¡°I seek the Third Realm.¡±The Nameless mashed a button. The doors slid shut.Silence.¡°Your¡­ suit¡¯s ripped,¡± the Nameless said, sweating.Ben¡¯s eye twitched. Above them, Muzak oozed from hidden pipes¡ªa lute¡¯s melody, twisted into something soulless and synthetic.¡°Scars of battle,¡± Ben rumbled. ¡°I am Sir Benginold, slayer of the Frost Wyrm of Karak¡¯s Pass. My armor was stripped by a bureaucrat-god, my blade reforged into a goblet.¡± He brandished the clay goblet. ¡°A goblet that mocks me.¡±The Nameless blinked. ¡°Uh. Okay. I¡¯m¡­ Jason? From¡­ Advertising¡­¡±The doors opened. Jason fled.One of the Nameless (random office clerk) pointed Ben toward a place to rest and wait. The area was a gray linen closet with delusions of grandeur. The walls bristled with parchment (post-its) scrawled with frantic runes: ¡°URGENT!!¡±, ¡°ASAP!!¡±, ¡°WHY IS THE PRINTER HAUNTED?!¡± A flat stone (monitor) glared at him from the desk.He sat.The chair shrieked, spun, and nearly capsized.¡°Treacherous fiend¡ª¡± Ben hissed, steadying himself.A shadow fell across the desk. A Nameless loomed¡ªbearded, bespectacled, smelling of stale mead (Red Bull) and despair.¡°You made it Ben! Like I said, I¡¯m Greg. From HR. I¡¯ve heard a lot about you! Let¡¯s get you¡­ onboarded.¡±Ben rose, fist to chest. ¡°At last. A fellow warrior.¡±Greg sighed, ¡°Sure. Let¡¯s¡­ go with that.¡±The office swallowed Ben whole.Greg¡ªa twitching, clipboard-clutching herald in a striped tunic¡ªhad been prattling about ¡°synergy¡± and ¡°bandwidth¡± for what felt like an eternity, his words as hollow as a beggar¡¯s alms bowl. Ben¡¯s suit jacket groaned with every step, the polyester stitching hissing threats of mutiny. Ahead, a gleaming metal portal (elevator) yawned open, its innards glowing like a dragon¡¯s gullet.¡°This¡¯ll whisk us to Marketing!¡± Greg chirped, jabbing a button. ¡°They¡¯re our storytellers! Well, slide-deck storytellers. Less ¡®once upon a time,¡¯ more ¡®let¡¯s circle back¡¯!¡±The portal shuddered. Ben braced himself against the wall, half-expecting siege engines to burst through the walls. Instead, a Nameless in a tunic adorned with cartoon ducks (graphic tee) shuffled in, eyes glued to a glowing palm-stone. The doors closed, and the air filled with a sacrilegious lute melody (elevator Muzak).By the Nine Hells, Ben thought, this is the song of the damned.The doors opened to a cacophony of clattering stones (keyboards) and shrill incantations. Mortals barked into ancient artifacts (phones), their voices sharp as daggers.¡°No, the discount expired at fiscal year-end!¡± snarled a woman with serpentine eyeliner. ¡°Yes, I¡¯m aware your dog ate the contract¡ªtry bleeping harder!¡±Greg swept an arm toward the chaos. ¡°The Sales Team! They, uh¡­ forge alliances! But, like, with invoices!¡±Ben eyed a nearby scroll (contract) stamped with crimson runes (¡°URGENT¡±). ¡°They wage war with parchment?¡±¡°Exactly!¡± Greg beamed, missing the horror in Ben¡¯s voice. ¡°Oh! Meet Karoline! She¡¯s our, uh¡­¡±¡°Karen,¡± the woman corrected, not looking up. ¡°Greg, tell Chad the printer in Accounting just bit Steve. Again.¡±Ben¡¯s heroic instincts flared. ¡°A beast needs slaying? Point me to its den.¡±Karen blinked. ¡°It¡¯s a PH JetDesk. And Steve¡¯s getting a tetanus shot.¡±Greg hurriedly guided Ben back into the metal portal as if Karen¡¯s next words would be a curse upon Greg¡¯s ears. The elevator next revealed a shadowy crypt lit by pulsating runes (server lights). Mortals hunched over glowing slabs, their faces bathed in eerie blue light.¡°Our IT department!¡± Greg announced, voice tinged with reverence. ¡°They, they help maintain the cloud!¡±A bearded man with crumbs nested in his beard sighed. ¡°Greg, we¡¯ve talked about this. We just fix the Wi-Fi.¡±¡°Ben, this is Dave! And Steve! And Derek.¡±Ben studied their glowing stones (screens), etched with eldritch symbols (error codes). ¡°You unravel curses here?¡± Ben growled. Derek didn¡¯t look up. "Mostly we tell Brenda to restart her computer."After collecting signatures, the elevator summoned them again, its hum a merciful escape from the chill of the IT oracle¡¯s lair. The doors parted to a stench of burnt offerings (microwave popcorn) and despair. Greg gestured to a metal beast (vending machine) devouring coins. ¡°The vending machine! We¡¯ve got Coffee¡ª¡± He waved a K-Cup. ¡°¡ªand protein bars!¡± He pointed to a limp ration bar.Ben prodded the strange wares. ¡°Your clan subsists on¡­ ration scraps?¡±¡°High-protein!¡± Greg said, as if that explained anything. ¡°Oh! Chad banned protein shakes after the Christmas party incident, but we¡¯ve got Kombucha!¡±Ben eyed the murky brew. ¡°Does it¡­ strengthen the spirit?¡±¡°It strengthens HR complaints,¡± muttered a passing Nameless.The nourishment nexus (vending machine) and Bean Elixir Ritual Summoning Relic (coffee machine) seemed to call to all the Nameless, but Greg dragged Ben away before he could understand their strange rituals. The elevator¡¯s last shudder deposited them before a monolithic oak door. Runes carved into its surface declared: CHAD ¨C BRANCH MANAGERGreg¡¯s cheer finally faltered. ¡°So! Uh. Chad¡¯s our Branch Manager. He¡¯s super chill! Just don¡¯t mention the¡­ uh¡­ gluten-free muffin thing.¡±Ben frowned. ¡°A muffin felled warriors?¡±Before Greg could answer, the door creaked open. Shadows pooled inside, thick as tar, and the air tasted of sandalwood and impending doom. A voice colder than a frost giant¡¯s heart slithered out:¡°Ben. Let¡¯s optimize your potential.¡±Greg vanished like a spooked hare.Ben stepped forward, his dress shoes squeaking their betrayal.At last, he thought, a worthy foe.Chad¡¯s office was a tomb of modern sorcery. Glass walls glinted like frozen lightning. Screens flickered with charts and sigils Ben could not understand. The man himself stood with his back turned, silhouetted against a skyline choked with steel spires. His stillness felt deliberate, rehearsed¡ªa predator¡¯s gambit.Ben¡¯s boots sank into carpet thicker than marsh mud. His suit jacket had fully surrendered, seams split to expose the corded muscle of a man who¡¯d once carried a dragon¡¯s carcass uphill. The laminated badge on his chest read ¡°MAIL CLERK¡± in bold, accusing letters.¡°You¡¯re not supposed to be here,¡± Chad said, not turning. His voice was a blade dipped in honey.¡°But the schedule¡­¡± Greg said, before backing away.¡°The quivering scribe clutches his temporal ledger?¡± Ben growled, watching Greg retreat beneath Chad¡¯s warlord¡¯s glare. ¡°The High King¡¯s gaze could split oak¡ªwhat hope have you?¡± He thumped his chest, admiration blazing. ¡°A commander who fells dissent with but a glance! By the Nine Hells, this Chad¡¯s mettle rivals the Frost Wyrm¡¯s!¡±Chad pivoted. His eyes were the color of ledgers balanced at midnight. ¡°You reek of¡­ the Tower. Ash and iron. Not a scent this world wears.¡±¡°Speak plain.¡± Ben¡¯s voice rumbled, tectonic.A flicker of irritation, ¡°You appeared uninvited. My first instinct was to erase you. Cleanly. Quietly.¡± He nodded to a painting on the wall, innocuous save for the faint runes etched into its frame. ¡°Then I heard Greg squawking about onboarding. Curious.¡±Ben stared. The man¡¯s words were riddles wrapped in fog.Chad leaned against his desk, arms folded. ¡°The gods sent you. Why?¡±¡°To slay a evil. Find the shadow, remove the rot that plagues this land¡­ and TPS reports?¡±¡°Slay.¡± Chad repeated the word like a dead language. ¡°This isn¡¯t a realm for slaying. It¡¯s primarily for¡­ containment.¡± He tapped a folder. ¡°Your file. Empty. No history. No skills. Just ¡®Mail Clerk Specialist¡¯ stamped by divine incompetence.¡±Ben¡¯s shoulders stiffened. ¡°I need no file. My deeds are writ in¡ª¡±¡°¡ªblood and ballads, yes. I read that¡­ ¡®resume¡¯ once Lisa brought up a copy to me.¡± Chad¡¯s smile was as smooth as water. ¡°But uselessness has its uses. The gods dumped you here. I¡¯ll wring purpose from that.¡±He slid a keycard across the desk. ¡°You¡¯ll sit. You¡¯ll type. You¡¯ll file. And when the time comes¡­¡± His gaze drifted to the pendant. ¡°¡­you¡¯ll answer the call.¡±¡°What call?¡±Chad ignored him, turning back to the window. ¡°The Council of Seekers tends the veil between worlds. Towers rise where they shouldn¡¯t. Hungry things stir. We¡­ manage the chaos.¡± He glanced over his shoulder. ¡°Even chaos in ill-fitting suits.¡±Ben¡¯s hand closed around the keycard. It bit into his palm, cold and smooth. ¡°You want me to fight.¡±¡°I want you to file reports and deliver mail.¡± Chad¡¯s tone sharpened. ¡°But when the Tower calls¡ªand it will¡ªyou¡¯ll fight¡­ like my other Consultants.¡±Ben¡¯s brow furrowed. ¡°Tower?¡±Chad waved a hand. The screens behind him flared to life, flashing images of jagged obsidian monoliths erupting from cityscapes, their peaks clawing at the sky. ¡°Ancient things. Predators. They call the people to their depths. Most die. You?¡± A pause. ¡°You¡¯ve already tasted their rot. I can tell.¡±The air thickened. Ben¡¯s lungs burned with memory¡ªthe crumbling sky, the shadow that had seeped into his world like poison.¡°Finish your onboarding,¡± Chad said, dismissal final. ¡°And Ben? Try not to break the printer. IT¡¯s still traumatized from the Muffin Incident.¡±******The ¡°computer¡± glared at Ben, its screen a mosaic of glowing runes (spreadsheets). Greg had left a note: ¡°Type slowly :) :)¡±Ben¡¯s fists hovered over the keys. Somewhere, deep in his marrow, the shadow stirred. The Tower¡¯s pull, faint but persistent, hummed like a plucked bowstring.He glanced at the keycard. Chad¡¯s pendant flashed in his mind¡ªa silver tower, a silent threat.The printer down the hall shrieked. Karen¡¯s voice followed: ¡°I swear to God, if this thing eats another report¡ª¡±Ben¡¯s mouth curled, something between a snarl and a grin.Let it call, he thought, fingers slamming a key with lethal force. The ¡°A¡± key shot across the room.I¡¯ll be ready. If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation. Chapter 3 Greg guided Ben to his new domain: the Mail Room. It festered in the building¡¯s bowels, a crypt of witchlight hum and forgotten parcels. Ben stood at its threshold, nostrils flaring at the stench of dust, stale alchemical sludge, and defeat. Towers of unmarked boxes teetered like siege engines abandoned mid-assault. A steel steed (forklift) sat dormant, its prongs rusted and bowed¡ªlike a toothless wolf in a den of mice. The room¡¯s sole guardian snored at a desk buried under mountains of mis-sorted scrolls (mail). The man¡ªGarry, his nametag read¡ªwas a mound of flesh and flannel. His jowls quivering with each wet, guttural snore. A rivulet of drool pooled around a half-eaten doughnut fossilized to a memo pad labeled ¡°URGENT: 2017 Tax Documents.¡± ¡°You!¡± Ben¡¯s voice shook the cobwebbed rafters. ¡°Rise, sentry! Your post is overrun!¡± Garry¡¯s snores deepened, punctuated by a phlegmy choke. Ben seized a nearby gavel (a stapler) and slammed it on the desk. The doughnut crumbled to dust. Garry snorted, smacked his lips, and resumed his slumber. ¡°Deaf as a tombstone,¡± Ben muttered, leaning closer, "And twice as useful." Ben stalked the mail room¡¯s aisles like a general surveying a plague-ravaged camp. The air in the realm hung with the musk of neglect, every breath a lungful of parchment rot. His boots crunched over the carcasses of rubber bands and brittle packing tape as he cataloged the room¡¯s sins: The ¡°Fragile¡± Bin: A sarcophagus of folly. Shredded packing peanuts spilled over its edges like snow atop a mass grave. At its center lay a headless garden gnome, one chipped hand still raised in a cheery wave. Ben crouched, turning the figure over. ¡°A warrior felled by decapitation,¡± he muttered, the gnome¡¯s vacant stare mirroring his disdain. ¡°Your clan abandoned you to this stygian pit. Rest now, little sentinel.¡± The Pallet of 2018: A monolith of incompetence. Envelopes¡ªyellowed and bloated with moisture¡ªhad fused into a single, sagging slab. Ben dragged a finger across its surface, dislodging a beetle that scuttled into the shadows. ¡°Scrolls of a fallen era,¡± he growled. ¡°Their secrets have moldered, their senders forgotten. A tomb for ink and idiocy.¡± The ¡°Phone¡±: A relic of a dead crusade. The device crouched on a desk like a mummified toad, its receiver dangling by a cord frayed to gutstring thinness. The base was crusted with hieroglyphs of neglect¡ªcoffee rings older than interns, fossilized cheese dust, and a sticky patch that reeked of citrus-flavored regret. Ben lifted the receiver, and a family of silverfish spilled from the earpiece. ¡°Your lines are severed,¡± he declared. ¡°Your battles¡­ unanswered.¡± The ¡°Live Nudes¡± Box: Ben¡¯s boot connected with the crate, sending it skidding into a wall. The cardboard split, unleashing a skittering horde of spiders. ¡°Invaders!¡± he barked, seizing a nearby scroll tube (mailing tube) to crush the eight-legged marauders. ¡°This outpost is compromised!¡± The Filing Cabinet: A tower of hubris. Ben wrenched open the drawer, unleashing an avalanche of paperwork that buried him to the knees. Tax forms sliced his arms like paper blades; a family of silverfish rained down, their antennae twitching in the fluorescent glare. Amidst the carnage fluttered a postcard¡ªsun-bleached and warped, its palm-tree vista defaced by Chad¡¯s looping scrawl: ¡°Wish you were here! - Management Retreat, 2016.¡± Ben plucked it from the rubble, his thumb smearing the ink. ¡°A chieftain¡¯s mockery,¡± he rumbled. ¡°Penned while his kin rotted in this purgatory.¡± His boot heel ground the card into the tiles, grinding paradise to pulp. ***** The forklift¡¯s engine snarled to life, its rusty growl echoing through the mail room¡¯s cavernous belly. Ben stood tall in the saddle (driver¡¯s seat), his hands gripping the wheel like the reins of a warhorse. ¡°We ride at dawn, steel steed!¡± he bellowed, slamming the gearshift forward. The machine lurched, skewering a pallet of ¡°Confidential¡± parcels with its prongs. Boxes exploded in a shower of packing slips and decade-old memos. Garry jolted awake, his beard raining powdered sugar and doughnut shrapnel. ¡°Wha¡ª? Who¡ª? Overtime?¡± he slurred, blinking at the carnage. ¡°War,¡± Ben corrected, steering the forklift in a tight arc around Garry¡¯s desk. ¡°And you, sloth-lord, will serve.¡± Garry blinked, farted audibly, and reached for a fresh doughnut. ¡°M¡¯break¡¯s til 10.¡± Ben¡¯s eye twitched. ¡°So be it,¡± he snarled, revving the engine. ¡°I¡¯ll forge order from this chaos¡ªafter I rally a war council!¡± ****** Ben stormed through the office like a hurricane in steel-toed boots. Searching for one soul that had the look and feel of a true warrior. Greg was first¡ªcornered in a supply closet, stress-eating gummy bears. ¡°Ben! Hi! I was just, uh, inventorying¡ª¡± ¡°Your ledger-balancing ends now,¡± Ben declared, hauling him out by his tie. ¡°The mail room demands tribunes.¡± Kellen froze mid-Slack message, fingers hovering over his keyboard like a startled vole. ¡°D-dude, I¡¯ve got a deadline¡ª¡± ¡°Death comes for us all,¡± Ben intoned, tossing him over his shoulder. ¡°Today, you live.¡± Lisa didn¡¯t flinch when Ben kicked open the lobby doors. ¡°Concierge service is over,¡± she drawled, not looking up from her nails. ¡°You mistake me for a guest,¡± Ben said. ¡°You are scout-general now.¡± The Intern (name: Dylan? Tyler?) was found weeping in the stairwell, clutching a shattered coffee carafe. ¡°They called my pivot tables ¡®cute¡¯¡ª¡± ¡°Tears are rations for the weak,¡± Ben said, hoisting him up. ¡°Today, you bleed productivity.¡± The Mail room Musters: Ben climbed atop the forklift, his boots scraping against the rusted steel, and raised his mug. The witchlights flickered, casting his shadow like a war banner across the mountains of ruined parcels. ¡°Warriors!¡± His voice boomed, shaking dust from the rafters. ¡°You stand in the rotten heart of this realm¡ªa fortress besieged by chaos, its walls crumbling, its defenders asleep!¡± He jabbed the knife toward Garry, who snorted mid-snore, a doughnut chunk tumbling from his lips. Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original. Greg hyperventilated into a UPS bag, his face the color of printer paper. ¡°I think I¡¯m having a¡ª¡± ¡°A revelation!¡± Ben thundered, cutting him off. ¡°For too long, this keep has festered! Scrolls lost to the abyss! Beasts of iron left to rust!¡± He kicked a shattered monitor, sending sparks cascading over Kellen, who yelped and dropped a stack of misrouted mail. ¡°But no more! Today, we carve order from this entropy! Today, we become the spearpoint of destiny!¡± Lisa rolled her eyes, filing a nail to a lethal point. ¡°Destiny¡¯s got a 401(k) and dental, right?¡± Ben leapt down, looming over her. ¡°You mistake purpose for payroll, scribe. What is life but a ledger of deeds? When the bards sing of this day, will they croon of copays¡­ or courage?¡± The room fell silent, save for the intern¡¯s muffled whimpers. Ben turned to him, slicing the caution tape near an OSHA violation with a flourish. ¡°Rise, young squire! Your pivot tables are but kindling. Today, you wield fire!¡± He thrust a lighter into the intern¡¯s shaking hand. ¡°But¡ªbut¡­¡± ¡°All great pyres begin with a spark!¡± Ben wheeled back to the group, his cloak (Old curtain) flaring. ¡°To the nay-sayers, we are misfits! To the blind, we are mad! But I say¡ªwe are the fulcrum! The edge! The unseen hand that strangles entropy!¡± Greg peeked out from his UPS bag. ¡°Ben, the fire extinguisher¡¯s expired if a fire starts¡ª¡± ¡°A blessing!¡± Ben roared. ¡°For now, even flames heed our cause!¡± The HVAC turned on¡ªa guttural, grinding screech. Ben spun toward the sound, mug gleaming. ¡°Hear that, comrades? The beast mocks our resolve! It thinks us crushed beneath its paper hooves! But we¡­ we are the avalanche!¡± He slammed his fist onto the pallet of 2018 mail, sending a cloud of silverfish scattering. ¡°Greg! Chronicle our conquests upon these scrolls of triumph!¡± He hurled a fistful of shipping labels. Greg caught one, blinked at the barcode, and accidentally stuck it to his forehead, shaking his head. ¡°Kellen!¡± Ben tossed a shattered printer drum at him. ¡°Forge from these ruins a siege engine! Let every jam and paper cut be a war cry!¡± Kellen stared at the debris, then slowly began threading a USB cable through the wreckage like a fuse. ¡°Lisa!¡± Ben unsheathed a letter opener and slapped it into her palm. ¡°You are our blade in the dark! Let the taverns (break rooms) buzz with tales of your cuts!¡± Lisa arched a brow, then speared a stack of unopened HR complaints. ¡°...Sure. Let¡¯s stab bureaucracy.¡± ¡°And you!¡± Ben hauled the intern to his feet. ¡°Your fire will light the beacon! Let Chad¡¯s kingdom blaze with our glory!¡± The intern hiccuped, flicking the lighter. A tiny flame sputtered to life. ¡°I-I¡¯m ready to¡­ burn?¡± ¡°LOUDER!¡± ¡°BURN!¡± the intern squeaked. Ben raised his mug to the air. ¡°The scribes will sing of this hour! Of the War Council that rose from dust! Of the beast that fell to stamps! To victory!¡± ¡°To¡­ victory?¡± Greg whispered, peeling the shipping label off his nose. ¡°TO VICTORY!¡± Ben roared. A half-hearted murmur rippled through the group. Garry belched in his sleep. The mail room door shuddered under three sharp knocks¡ªa rhythm more akin to a siege battering ram than a polite request. Ben wheeled toward the sound, mug raised. ¡°Who dares¡ª¡± The door swung open, revealing a woman carved from a battlefield, marbled with armor (tailored pantsuit) gleaming under the flickering witchlights, every seam sharp enough to draw blood. Her hair swept into a tight siege engine of a bun, eyes like twin daggers honed on corporate audits, she surveyed the carnage with a gaze that could flay weak wills to the bone. ¡°Benginold?¡± Her voice was a whetstone dragged across steel. ¡°Chad approved my restructuring request. Effective immediately, this¡­¡±¡ªshe paused, nostrils flaring at the smoldering tax files and silverfish diaspora¡ª¡°¡­unit is temporarily designated Logistical Reconnaissance Division. Personnel reassigned, pay grades unchanged.¡± Greg peeled a shipping label off his cheek. ¡°Wait, we¡¯re stuck here? But I¡¯m HR¡ª¡± ¡°You¡¯re expendable,¡± the woman said, flipping open a clipboard forged from what looked like dragonhide (vegan leather). ¡°I¡¯m Jenavive Harken. Your tactical liaison. Call me Jenny if you enjoy unemployment.¡± Ben¡¯s eyes narrowed, assessing. Her stance betrayed training¡ªweight balanced on the balls of her feet, shoulders loose but ready. A quill (pen) tucked behind her ear, ink black as a starless night. A warrior-scribe, then. Worthy. ¡°Jenny,¡± Ben rumbled, lowering his mug. ¡°You bear the stench of command.¡± ¡°And you reek of arson and poor life choices,¡± she said, toeing the charred tax box. ¡°But Chad insists you¡¯re disruptive enough to warrant oversight.¡± Lisa snorted. ¡°So you¡¯re our babysitter?¡± Jenny¡¯s gaze sliced to her. ¡°I¡¯m the scalpel excising this tumor of incompetence. You¡¯ll address me as Commander or Ma¡¯am. Your whining stays in the break room with your emoji mugs.¡± The intern raised a trembling hand. ¡°Wh-what¡¯s our mission?¡± Jenny¡¯s smile was a garrote wire. ¡°To unfuck this dystopian origami project.¡± She turned to Ben, tossing him a brass key stamped with the Council of Seekers¡¯ sigil¡ªa tower encircled by quills. ¡°Chad¡¯s terms: Fix the mailroom, and the Tower¡¯s next.¡± ¡°War Council!¡± he roared, slamming the key onto a pallet. ¡°Meet your general!¡± Greg whispered to Kellen, ¡°Are we the good guys?¡± ¡°We¡¯re the employed,¡± Kellen squeaked. ¡°I think, I burned the tax files accidentally,¡± the intern said. Jenny snapped her clipboard shut. ¡°First order: Incinerate anything older than Chad¡¯s last haircut. Second: Silence that godsdamned printer.¡± Her eyes locked on Ben. ¡°You. With me. We strategize in my office.¡± Ben grinned, teeth glinting. As they marched over to the break room, the intern leaned toward Lisa. ¡°Is Jenny¡­ scarier than Ben?¡± Lisa lit a cigarette off the smoldering tax box while Greg prepared the fire extinguisher. ¡°Nah. Just better dressed.¡± Chapter 4 Jenny¡¯s office¡ªnow dubbed the ¡°war room¡± by Ben¡ªsmelled of burnt espresso and over-achieving vanilla. Ben slumped in a plastic chair, its uneven leg ticking irritably with every shift. Jenny sat rigid across from him, her clipboard a shield, her voice a blade.¡°I apologize for the seating. Most stand¡ªand unless they¡¯re being reprimanded, don¡¯t stick around long enough to get comfortable.¡± She stirred the espresso, sludge thick as dragon¡¯s blood in her goblet, leaving lazy, swirling trails of undissolved grounds. ¡°The Tower isn¡¯t just a place. It¡¯s a parasite. It feeds on fear. Stress. Ambition. Every time you rage at a jammed printer or cry in a supply closet, it feasts.¡±Ben¡¯s eye twitched. ¡°A leech? Then why not burn it?¡±Jenny exhaled sharply, less a sigh and more a small, bitter laugh. ¡°Because if you don¡¯t play by the Tower¡¯s rules it locks up. You have to beat it properly for the next floor to open. As far as we can each floor isn¡¯t connected exactly like a Tower, we just call it a Tower for simplicity,¡± she said, tapping her pen against the clipboard with a hollow tok-tok. ¡°It grows stronger on the energy it drains. Every meltdown, every deadline panic¡ªit fuels the Tower. Allows it to build new floors, new traps. A self-sustaining nightmare.¡±Ben leaned forward, his fingers drumming once on the table before curling into a fist. ¡°And the Council?¡±Jenny scoffed, flipping a page on her clipboard as if reading a list of ancient failures. ¡°Descendants of fools who thought they could control these things. Ten thousand years of playing whack-a-mole with Towers. We nudge zoning laws, buy land, plant front companies¡ª¡±¡°Like Chad¡¯s Empire,¡± Ben interrupted.Jenny smirked, the expression barely there before it vanished behind another sip of espresso. ¡°Empire?¡± She let the word sit between them, tasting its absurdity before shaking her head. ¡°It¡¯s a tax write-off with benefits. Plus, he¡¯s just the branch manager. The company lets us steer idiots like you away from the Towers¡­ or toward them, if you¡¯re useful.¡±Ben¡¯s grip tightened on the table¡¯s edge. ¡°You herd lambs to slaughter?¡±Jenny rolled her eyes. ¡°We redirect,¡± she corrected, her voice as even as a scalpel. ¡°Most people feel the ¡®Call¡¯ as a nagging urge to work late, chase promotions¡ªharmless. But a few¡­¡± Her gaze flicked to Ben¡¯s scarred knuckles, lingering like a silent accusation. ¡°¡­hear it as a war drum.¡±The hum in Ben¡¯s bones deepened¡ªa vibration he¡¯d long blamed on the building¡¯s garbage HVAC system after prodding Greg. But now, with every flicker of the lights, he recognized it for what it was. The Tower¡¯s pulse. Rhythmic. Calculating. Waiting.¡°Besides, once one enters the Tower, if they are deemed worthy, they will be given a skill. We call these Mockeries¡ªor ¡®Mock¡¯¡ªtwisted skills the Tower grants to those it deems worthy,¡± she held out her hand, small sparks flew from her fingers. ¡°You¡¯ll know if your given one, so I wouldn¡¯t say we herd lambs to slaughter so much as herd wolves that believe they are lambs to what they truly are.¡±¡°Parlor tricks,¡± Ben spat. ¡°A true warrior needs no crutch forged by cowardice.¡±Jenny the Ruthless thrust a battle-scarred tome across the war table, its time-ravaged edges curling like dragonhide parchment. ¡°Chad thinks you¡¯re our can opener,¡± she said, rolling her eyes, then watching him. ¡°This Tower¡¯s newer, about fifty years old as far as we can tell. Only five floors mapped here. The early floor¡¯s are meant to, for lack of better terms, accept someone. Allow them access. After that it gets¡­ messy.¡±Jenny slid the dossier closer to him, its glossy surface catching the flicker of the office¡¯s witchlights. Ben flipped it open, his fingers brushing the first photo.The image showed a dark labyrinth, its walls of jagged stone slick with an oily sheen. Shadows pooled in its recesses, and faint torchlight glimmered in the distance like dying stars. Ben¡¯s eyes narrowed. ¡°The Guts of the Beast,¡± he muttered, his voice low and graveled. ¡°A maze for the desperate. See here¡ª¡± His finger tapped the photo. ¡°¡ªthe walls weep. And there¡ª¡± A faint smear of something dark on the stone. ¡°¡ªthe blood of fools who thought themselves clever.¡±He flipped to the next image: a massive wooden gate, its surface carved with runes that might have been warnings or invitations. The gate stood alone in a cavernous chamber, flanked by shattered pillars and coils of rusted chains. Ben¡¯s lip curled, but there was a flicker of respect in his gaze. ¡°A Barricade of Vanity,¡± he said, his tone edged with grudging admiration. ¡°Rotten wood, but the runes¡­ they hum with power. A gate meant to test, not bar.¡±The final photo made him pause. An empty arena, its sands white as bone, its walls lined with cracked stone thrones. The air in the image seemed to shimmer, as if the very dust held memory. Ben¡¯s fist tightened. ¡°A Coliseum. An arena for warriors,¡± he said, his voice quieter now. ¡°Fight for what? Trophies or acclaim?¡± His finger traced the edge of the photo, where faint drag marks scarred the sand. Jenny leaned forward, her voice tentative. ¡°You can tell that much from a photo? Color me impressed. They¡¯re the lower levels, we¡¯ve gotten to. The Coliseum, as you called it, is the fifth floor. Our current level.¡±Ben closed the dossier with a snap, his eyes dark. ¡°These places are alive. They wait.¡± He stood, the dossier clutched in one hand. ¡°And I¡¯ll not keep them waiting long. And at the top?¡± he asked, his voice low.¡°Unknown.¡± Jenny¡¯s fingers drummed once against the table before she withdrew them, as if touching the dossier too long would stain her. ¡°Reach it, and the Tower collapses. But out of a hundred global hellscapes, we¡¯ve only closed two. In ten thousand years, only two.¡±¡°Weaklings,¡± Ben spat.Jenny¡¯s expression didn¡¯t change, but the temperature in the room seemed to drop a degree. ¡°Realists,¡± she countered. ¡°Towers aren¡¯t conquered by rage and power alone. They¡¯re solved. Every floor¡¯s a puzzle dripping with trauma. You¡¯ll need more than a mug.¡±Ben stood, chair screeching against the floor. ¡°I¡¯ve felled gods.¡±Jenny leaned back, unimpressed. ¡°And I¡¯ve buried ten of you,¡± she said coldly. ¡°Hotheads who thought ¡®champion¡¯ meant ¡®invincible.¡¯ The Tower preys on ego. It¡¯ll twist your pride into a noose.¡±Ben¡¯s teeth clenched. ¡°When?¡±Jenny took another slow sip of espresso, letting the silence stretch, ¡°When you stop mistaking stubbornness for strength. The Tower¡¯s on Floor five. Tomorrow, we breach it.¡±¡°We?¡±¡°You¡¯re the can opener,¡± Jenny said, rising from her chair with the precision of a blade unsheathed. ¡°I¡¯m the hand that twists.¡±Ben sat motionless, the dossier before him. His eyes lingered on the final photo: the image burned into his mind, a grotesque monument to the Tower¡¯s hunger.The hum crescendoed, a low, insistent thrum that vibrated through the floor and into his bones. Ben¡¯s fingers twitched, aching for the hilt of a blade worthy of his strength. He frowned at a nearby butter knife. It had served him well, an instrument of defiance against the tyranny of stale breakroom bagels, but it was no war blade. No instrument of legend.A true weapon, one fit for battle, had weight. It had presence.He missed Dragonsdeathbringer.Ben¡¯s gaze drifted to his mug, the words ¡°World¡¯s Okayest Employee!¡± mocking him in cheap office print. It had once been his sword, his steadfast companion, his unyielding bastion against the horrors of a dozen battlefields. He gripped the handle, willing his will into it. If he focused, if he believed¡ªhe could almost feel the steel beneath the illusion, the ghost of its balance in his palm.But the Tower¡¯s pull was strong. The hum rose, a relentless tide, and the battle call thrummed louder in his chest. The Tower loomed on the horizon of his mind, a foe worthy of his steel.He stood abruptly, his chair groaning in protest, the seams of his suit jacket giving a defeated little pop. Ben scowled.¡°This armor is weak,¡± he muttered, rolling his shoulders as the fabric strained against his bulk. His ¡°suit,¡± as these Nameless office-dwellers called it, was no fit raiment for a warrior. The sleeves cut into his biceps like shackles, the trousers threatened rebellion with every step, and the last time he had reached for the top shelf in the supply closet, the back of his jacket had surrendered entirely.No, this would not do.If he was to face the Tower, if he was to conquer it, he would need stronger armor. Something with give, something that would not rip asunder at the mere flexing of his divine physique. If this realm of scribe work could accomplish such a feat. Ben nodded to Jenny as he stood, leaving her office. Ben strode through the dim-lit maze of cubicles, the oppressive air of laborious monotony pressing down on his shoulders like a curse. Screens glowed like false stars, their pale light casting ghostly halos over abandoned keyboards. Somewhere, a phone rang¡ªunanswered, unheeded, its shrill cry swallowed by the void.The Tower was listening.The hum of war swelled in his chest, a low, insistent thrum that quickened his pulse and sharpened his senses. He walked toward the mailroom, his boots striking the floor with the rhythm of a war march. Powerful and intimidating. It wasn¡¯t long before he got lost.He could map the twisting paths of a cursed forest in his mind¡¯s eye, track a beast through the wilds by a single misplaced blade of grass¡ªbut this? This endless maze of sterile walls, white ceilings, and soulless cubicles? Every turn led him back to the same blank-eyed, hunched-over office drones, their faces carved from the same weary mold.Ben scowled. ¡°GREG!¡± His voice thundered through the labyrinth, shaking loose a cascade of Post-its from a nearby cork-board. No response.He stomped forward, louder this time. ¡°GREG!!!¡±¡°Will you shut up, man?! I¡¯m with a client!¡± came an irritated voice from one of the faceless drones.Ben turned, narrowing his eyes at the offender. A Nameless one, clad in a shirt too tight for his frame, his face a mask of indignation.Without hesitation, Ben strode to the desk, seized the man¡¯s phone, and slammed it onto the receiver, shattering the device into pieces. ¡°Now, you¡¯re not.¡±The worker sputtered, his face flushing red. ¡°What the hell¡ª¡±¡°Nameless one,¡± Ben interrupted, his voice a low growl. ¡°Come now. Show me to the mailroom.¡±¡°What? No! Get lost!¡±Ben tilted his head, considering. Then, with a single, fluid motion, he grabbed the man by his shirt collar and hoisted him into the air. The worker flailed like a fish, his arms slapping uselessly against Ben¡¯s unyielding grip.Ben chuckled, a deep rumble that shook the cubicle walls. ¡°Ah! Spirit! I admire one who struggles against the jaws of fate. Perhaps you would make a fine addition to the Mailroom War Council?¡±The worker paled, his legs kicking feebly. ¡°The¡ªwhat? No! Put me down!¡±¡°Very well,¡± Ben said magnanimously. ¡°Guide me to my destination, and I shall grant your release.¡±¡°Just¡ªjust let me walk!¡±Ben shook his head. ¡°One does not demand terms from Sir Benginold the Strong, Slayer of Vyrathis the Devourer, Vanquisher of Villains, Wymarc of the Iron Sword!¡± His voice boomed like a warhorn in the narrow hallway. He adjusted his grip on the worker¡¯s shirt¡ªa tunic of polyester stripes¡ªand continued, ¡°With your will to fight, I grant you authority to use my common name, Ben.¡± The proclamation felt noble, the Nameless squirmed as if wrestling a dragon rather than enduring a handshake. ¡°You shall be released from my employ upon arrival.¡±And so, with his unwilling guide dangling like an overfilled grain sack looted from some peasant village, Ben continued his march toward the mailroom. His steps were sure, his purpose unwavering. Destiny called, and it was very loud about it¡ªlike a printer jammed on its final page.He reached the threshold of the sacred mailroom, the heart of the War Council¡¯s dominion. Torchlight did not flicker along the walls, nor did banners bearing mighty sigils hang overhead, but in Ben¡¯s mind, it might as well have. And soon enough, they would be. Instead, LED screens blinked their cold incantations, and witchlights cast their pale glow across shelves stacked high with scrolls. The air smelled not of sweat and steel but of ink and parchment¡ªthe lifeblood of this bureaucratic kingdom. The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement. Chapter 5 A voice cut through the rhythmic rustling of letters and packages, sharp as a dagger drawn across silk. ¡°Ben¡­ why do you have Steven from Sales?¡± Lisa stood by the sorting table, arms crossed, unimpressed but not particularly surprised. Both earbuds were firmly planted in her ears¡ªa silent declaration that whatever this was, it was decidedly not her problem. Her posture suggested she¡¯d seen far worse calamities unfold within these bleached-stone prisons. Ben lifted his struggling burden, presenting him as one might an offering to the gods¡ªor perhaps a sacrificial lamb bound for the altar. ¡°The Nameless?¡± he intoned, his voice heavy with gravitas. ¡°He was kind enough to offer his assistance. A fantastic tracker and guide, truly. Sadly, he refuses to join the War Council.¡± Steven flailed weakly, his protests garbled like a scribe¡¯s quill scratching against faulty parchment. ¡°I¡ªwhat? No! Let me go!¡± Ben obliged, dropping him unceremoniously onto the tiled floor. Steven hit with a soft thump, then scrambled away like a rat fleeing a collapsing dungeon, disappearing into the labyrinthine corridors of cubicles beyond. Ben nodded approvingly, watching the retreating figure vanish into shadow. ¡°Lisa,¡± he said, turning back to the receptionist, who now leaned casually against the sorting table, scrolling idly through enchanted slabs of glass, ¡°you shall keep an eye on that one. He has fight. I like him.¡± Lisa raised an eyebrow, deadpanning, ¡°Sure thing, hero. Just add it to my list of KPIs: ¡®Track down terrified salespeople.¡¯ Maybe HR will give me loyalty points for it.¡± Lisa made a vague noise of acknowledgment, barely glancing up as her thumbs tapped out arcane runes on the glowing slab of her phone. The War Council¡ªBen¡¯s chosen stewards, handpicked to serve this beleaguered realm¡ªcontinued their noble work. Their hands sorted envelopes like ancient scrolls, but their voices carried a triumphant ease, as though they were bards recounting tales of valor after vanquishing some great beast. Greg, formerly of Human Resources (a title Ben translated as ¡°Harbinger of Endless Forms¡±), leaned against a stack of undelivered parcels, flipping through a bundle of interdepartmental memos. ¡°Man,¡± he said, his voice tinged with awe at his own misfortune, ¡°I used to spend eight hours a day making people take training seminars that even I didn¡¯t understand.¡± He gestured vaguely to the stacks of paper around them, each pile resembling a fallen tower of bureaucracy. ¡°Now I put things in piles, and I still get paid the same.¡± ¡°This is the greatest arrangement in the history of labor,¡± Derek chimed in, his tone dripping with both sarcasm and reluctant admiration. A low murmur of agreement rippled through the ranks, like the rustling of leaves before a storm. Lisa, the ex-receptionist turned tactical scribe, flicked a stack of incoming mail into a bin with the precision of a master archer loosing arrows upon an invading horde. ¡°I used to welcome people and write speeches for the executives,¡± she said, her voice dry as parchment left too long in the sun. She tossed another envelope onto a desk without looking, her aim unerring. ¡°You know what I do now?¡± She paused dramatically. ¡°That.¡± Ben surveyed them, his expression one of deep approval. ¡°Truly, you serve with honor.¡± His words hung in the air, heavy with sincerity, though they landed somewhere between inspiring and baffling. In the far corner, Garry¡ªthe War Council¡¯s most mysterious and ancient member¡ªsnored softly, his snores weaving a rhythmic counterpoint to the clatter of mail. Garry had always worked in the mailroom¡ªif one could call it working. No one knew who had hired him, and there were whispers that he had simply been here since the Tower itself was built, perhaps summoned by some forgotten incantation. Legends spoke of how, in his youth, he had once delivered an entire week¡¯s worth of mail in a single afternoon, only to never move with such haste again. Some claimed he conserved his strength for battles yet unseen; others believed he was merely conserving energy for his next doughnut. Greg gestured to him solemnly, as if invoking a sacred truth. ¡°A wise man rests when the world allows it.¡± A hush fell over the Council, as if in reverence¡ªor possibly because no one wanted to wake Garry again. But Ben could not rest. Not yet. The great battle still loomed ahead. He tugged at his wretched suit, feeling the seams strain against his righteous musculature. His latest flex¡ªa mere stretch in preparation for war¡ªhad torn yet another stitch. A faint ripping noise confirmed his suspicions: the cursed garment was succumbing to his heroic form. ¡°This cloth prison cannot withstand my might,¡± he declared, holding the frayed edge aloft as though presenting evidence of treachery. Lisa glanced over, her deadpan delivery cutting through the tension like a dagger. ¡°Dude, you need a tailor.¡± Ben nodded solemnly, as if receiving counsel from a sage. ¡°Then a tailor I shall seek.¡± The War Council returned to sorting mail, their motions mechanical yet oddly ritualistic, as though they were performing some sacred rite to appease the gods of efficiency. The Tower loomed above them all, its walls pulsing faintly with the weight of unspoken dread. And Ben prepared¡ªfor war. ¡°Greg,¡± he boomed, turning toward the HR harbinger with the gravity of a king summoning his vassal, ¡°take me to this tailor.¡± Greg flinched visibly, nearly dropping the memo he¡¯d been holding. ¡°Uh¡­ okay, sure. But, uh, can we maybe not grab anyone by the shirt this time? Like, let¡¯s just¡­ walk there? Cool?¡± Ben strode forward, but before he could take a second step, the enchanted horn bellowed its dire call, and Ben¡ªever the reluctant champion¡ªsnatched up the phone. On the other end, Brenda from Accounts Payable speaks in a flat, measured tone. ¡°Ben, the correspondence hasn¡¯t been delivered to the proper departments, and the Mailroom needs to fix this immediately. I have an important document I¡¯m waiting for.¡± Ben¡¯s gaze hardened as ancient regrets mix with the fire of his unmet destiny. For a heartbeat, he let the call fall silent, as if the weight of his failures demands a pause. Then he declares, voice resonant and commanding. ¡°The tailor errand must wait.¡± His words, forged in the fires of past defeats and heroic dreams, sent a shiver through the room. Rising in a swift, purposeful motion, he startled the assembled War Council. In the sanctum of the mailroom¡ªwhere once ordinary clerks now serve as his appointed stewards¡ªtheir tasks continue in steady, routine fashion. Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there. ¡°I¡¯m on it,¡± Greg said in his usual matter-of-fact tone, while Lisa methodically sort letters, earbuds in both ears, her focus unbroken. Ben¡¯s heart pounded beneath his ill-fitting suit. Every tear in the fabric was a reminder that he was meant for greater things. Today, redemption calls him to repair the breach of his own failing honor. The room was bathed in the gentle glow of overhead lights, which, in his mind, shimmer like ancient lamp-light along the ramparts of a long-forgotten fortress. ¡°Dispatch the lost scrolls and rally the ranks!¡± Ben bellowed, his words slicing through the mundane hum of office chatter. His command echoed off walls that, to him, were steeped in the valor of bygone ages. The War Council members exchange brief, standard responses¡ªno grand speeches here, just quiet nods and murmurs of ¡°Okay, Ben¡± or ¡°On it.¡± He strode forward, each step a defiant oath to reclaim the honor that was once his. Yet beneath his booming declarations lies a wounded pride¡ªa man determined to prove that even a misdelivered memo can become the spark for redemption. Then, as if to punctuate the weight of his resolve, Ben paused before a battered mirror in the corner. His eyes burned with both fury and determination as he spoke in a low, intense murmur, ¡°I have failed before, but I shall not fail again.¡± Ben strode through the mailroom, a cavern of forgotten parcels and weathered crates, his mission as solemn as it was absurd. Clutching bundles of sorted mail destined for distant departments, he seized a rickety cart¡ªthe chariot of his duty¡ªand, with a fierce determination born of past failures, he would take his charge. Yet he could not leave his comrade entirely adrift. Spying Greg amidst the disarray¡ªa steady navigator among the chaos¡ªBen strode over and, with a Herculean heave, scooped him up. ¡°Greg, you shall steer this mighty vessel,¡± he bellowed, his voice echoing like a clarion call. Without waiting for protest, Ben deposited Greg into the cart, then roughly adjusted him into position, pushing him forward like a noble steed in a chariot race. ¡°Guide our quest, Greg!¡± Ben roared, his sinewy arms swinging as he hefted heaps of mail onto the cart. He gripped a stack of envelopes and, with the precision of a seasoned warrior, flung them across the cavernous space. Each parcel sailed through the air¡ªlanding squarely on desks, slipping into designated slots, as if guided by fate itself. Greg, ever the calm navigator amid Ben¡¯s tempest of bravado, called out in a measured tone, ¡°Turn left at the second aisle¡ªwatch out for the stack of outdated memos!¡± His finger traced the route through the labyrinthine halls of the mailroom, where ancient boxes and crumpled letters formed obstacles like fallen sentinels. Ben¡¯s grin was wild, his pride momentarily eclipsing his self-doubt. ¡°Perfect!¡± Ben declared, flexing his muscles so forcefully that the seams of his too-tight suit strained against his heroic frame. ¡°Each scroll delivered is a blow struck against our foes!¡± He vaulted over stray crates, the cart rumbling beneath his forceful pushes, as he hurled yet another bundle of mail onto a waiting desk with the finesse of an archer releasing a flawless shot. The parcels clattered into place, each landing marking a small victory in his campaign to restore order. All the while, the War Council of mailroom stewards¡ªGreg¡¯s voice guiding the way and Lisa¡¯s muted nods of approval as she continued sorting with steady routine¡ªwatched in quiet awe. Even Garry, the ever-drowsy veteran of the mailroom, stirred slightly at the commotion. Ben and Greg raced through the maze of office corridors as if charging the ramparts of an ancient citadel. The mail cart rattled over the tiled floor beneath Ben¡¯s powerful strides, his too-tight suit straining with every determined step. His muscles bulged against the fabric, each flex a declaration of defiance against the mundane. ¡°Left here, Ben¡ªturn at the water cooler!¡± Greg called out in his measured, office-appropriate tone, his finger steady as he navigated through the bustling hall. Ben roared with enthusiasm. ¡°Onward, my steadfast comrade! For each step, we reclaim the honor that was stolen from us!¡± He slammed the cart around a corner, nearly toppling a stack of files as startled workers whispered, ¡°What was that?¡± and ¡°Did you see him go by?¡± With each burst of speed, Ben hurled bundles of mail like missiles. Parcels soared through the air, landing with resounding thuds on desks and in inboxes. ¡°Behold!¡± he bellowed, ¡°Each scroll delivered is a reminder of our power against the tyranny of the office labyrinth!¡± The chaos swirled around them as Nameless workers scattered, murmuring in confusion while some even ducked beneath their cubicle partitions. Greg¡¯s calm guidance cut through the bedlam: ¡°Ben, steady¡ªwatch out for that conference room!¡± His tone was practical, even as Ben¡¯s heroic declarations echoed down the hall. Ben¡¯s pride and determination radiated in every step. ¡°Fear not the ordinary, for our charge is sacred!¡± he thundered, his eyes aflame with a wild, almost desperate hope. His suit ripped further at the seams¡ªa testament to his physical might and his burden of responsibility¡ªbut he pressed on, undeterred. As they barreled past clusters of busy workers, Greg continued to direct the charge with concise orders. ¡°Take the next right, Ben. The hallway¡¯s clear.¡± His voice was calm amidst the storm of Ben¡¯s theatrics, a steady counterpoint to the rallying cries of a battle-hardened warrior. Ben¡¯s laughter filled the corridor as he maneuvered the cart like a chariot, scattering mail and dispelling the inertia of routine. ¡°Perfect! Every package a proclamation of our defiance!¡± he declared, his voice echoing off the walls, stirring even the most lethargic of the office drones. In that moment, amid the startled gasps and whispered exclamations from the wandering workers, Ben¡¯s spirit soared. His charge was not merely a delivery¡ªit was a march toward redemption, a reclaiming of honor from a world mired in bureaucracy and neglect. ¡°Greg!¡± Ben called, his tone both commanding and hopeful. ¡°Let us press onward, for our final destination awaits at Brenda¡¯s office!¡± Greg, ever the steadfast navigator, responded with a simple, ¡°On it, Ben,¡± as he pointed the way. And with that, the unlikely duo surged through the labyrinth of the office, their journey a collision of valor and practicality¡ªa battle cry echoing in the corridors of the everyday. Chapter 6 At last, the cart crested a narrow passage, and before them loomed the threshold of Brenda¡¯s office¡ªthe final bastion of Accounts Payable. Ben slowed the cart with a powerful push, every muscle in his battle-worn frame tense with anticipation. Greg grunted, ¡°We made it, Ben,¡± in his unflappable, standard tone. Ben¡¯s eyes burned with the fire of redemption. ¡°Onward!¡± he declared. ¡°Let us deliver our tribute to the lady of accounts. Today, we right the wrongs and reclaim our honor!¡± And so, with the mail neatly amassed and his trusty navigator by his side, Ben prepared to roll forth into Brenda¡¯s domain¡ªa final charge toward a destiny he was determined not to let slip away again. Brenda sat in her cramped corner office¡ªa small throne for a minor lord, or so Ben mused bitterly. In his eyes, she ruled over a paltry dominion with the haughty air of someone who believed her realm was vast and mighty. Yet, he set aside his disdain; now was not the hour to let his pride flare. Ben entered, mail bundled like sacred scrolls in his arms, and approached her desk. ¡°My lady,¡± he intoned, voice low and trembling with wounded honor, ¡°I have come bearing the correspondence required by our charge.¡± Brenda barely glanced up from her computer, her tone clipped and standard. ¡°Take it,¡± she said, dismissively. A flash of indignation surged through Ben, but he held it in. He placed the mail before her and murmured an apology, ¡°Forgive my delay. I have... faltered in my duty.¡± ¡°Spare me the theatrics, Ben. Just do your job,¡± she replied, eyes returning to her work without a trace of ceremony. After a moment, Brenda began methodically shuffling through the envelopes, her movements efficient yet indifferent. The hum of routine filled the room until, suddenly, her eyes caught a particular letter resting among the others. ¡°Oh, silly me,¡± she said, a hint of amusement softening her tone. ¡°It was here the whole time.¡± Ben¡¯s tensed as he absorbed her careless tone. His pride, already wounded by past failures, burned with the desire for redemption. Yet, he remained silent¡ªhis duty, his quest for honor, transcending even this small rebuke. In that moment, as Brenda returned to her spreadsheets and the mundane rhythm of office life, Ben¡¯s resolve only grew stronger. The battle for honor raged on, and he would not let this minor defeat define him. Ben¡¯s pride still burned as he left Brenda¡¯s office, her dismissive ¡°Oh, silly me, it was here the whole time¡± echoing like a taunting refrain in his ears. Marching down the corridor with the mail cart in tow, he grabbed Greg by the shoulder. ¡°Greg,¡± Ben thundered, his voice a mix of wounded honor and simmering fury, ¡°did you hear her?¡± Greg, steady and unruffled, replied in his usual measured tone, ¡°That¡¯s Brenda for you, Ben. She makes a fuss over every minor mistake. Half the time, it¡¯s her fault. That¡¯s how she is.¡± Ben¡¯s eyes flashed as he hefted the cart with renewed determination, ¡°Then we shall prove our worth by setting things right! Now, let¡¯s take this portal.¡± He pointed at the elevator, their modern gateway from the mundane corridors to the hallowed halls of the mailroom. ¡°Onward, my friend, to the mailroom! There we restore order, and I alone shall bear this burden!¡± Greg nodded and pressed the button for the mailroom floor. As the metal doors slid shut with a resonant clank, Ben flexed his muscles, the fabric of his too-tight suit straining against his heroic frame. Every step was a defiant oath against failure. Inside the elevator, the low hum of its machinery mingled with Ben¡¯s inner fervor. He glanced at Greg, who offered a small, reassuring smile before resuming his role as navigator. ¡°We¡¯re almost there, Ben. We aren¡¯t lost.¡± Greg said simply. Ben¡¯s eyes narrowed as he imagined the mailroom as a battlefield¡ªa realm of scattered scrolls and disordered parcels where every properly delivered letter was a small victory against chaos. ¡°Perfect,¡± he murmured, his tone both proud and pained, ¡°for every error corrected, every scroll in its rightful place, we reclaim a piece of our honor.¡± The elevator doors opened with a groan, and the duo stepped into the dim, hallowed space of the mailroom. Amid the scent of aged paper and the quiet shuffle of diligent workers, Ben¡¯s heart pounded with the promise of redemption. Today, even the smallest errand would be transformed into a triumph. ¡°Onward, Greg,¡± Ben commanded, clenching his fists. ¡°Let us bring order to this realm, and show the world that even in failure, a warrior¡¯s spirit burns ever bright!¡± ***** Ben¡¯s fist struck the mail cart like a war drum, rattling a tower of parchment-scroll invoices. ¡°Mark this day, comrades! The clothiers of this realm are spineless curs.¡± The War Council stirred. Kellen¡¯s stress ball wheezed. The Intern swept shredded paper into a dustpan. ¡°Three hours we wandered!¡± Ben bellowed, gesturing to Greg, who hovered by the door like a disgraced herald. ¡°Three!¡± He yanked at his suit jacket¡ªa charcoal relic from Greg¡¯s ¡°golden age¡± of client-facing meetings¡ªnow frayed at the cuffs and split at the seam. ¡°Their shears trembled before my stature!¡± Lisa paused her nail-filing ritual. ¡°You told the guy at Suit Wearhouse you needed ¡®armor for verbal jousting.¡¯ He called security.¡± ¡°Falsehoods!¡± Ben roared, but the sleeve tore further, revealing a bicep patched with sticky notes and binder clips. ¡°The IT shamans have blessed my path! Their runes glow with¡­¡± He squinted at Derek¡¯s hastily scrawled Post-it. ¡°¡®Firmware update needed.¡¯ Aye! The stars align!¡± Marisa slid a caramel macchiato toward Ben. ¡°Syncing with Jenny, huh? Last guy who ¡®synced¡¯ with her got relocated to the Anchorage branch. By fax.¡± Ben ignored her, pacing like a caged wyvern. ¡°When the Tactical Liaison and I are joined in purpose, our conquests shall¡ª¡± This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. Riiip. The left knee of his trousers yawned open, exposing a hairy calf duct-taped to a sock garter. ¡°The threads rebel against their master,¡± Ben intoned, staring at the tear. Lisa didn¡¯t glance up from her crossword. ¡°The threads rebelled when you wore them to ¡®storm¡¯ the supply closet.¡± The Intern paused his sweeping. ¡°Chad¡¯s new memo says ¡®business casual includes kilts if culturally appropri¡ª¡¯¡± ¡°SILENCE!¡± Ben¡¯s roar shook Garry¡¯s half-eaten doughnut from its wax-paper throne. He drew himself up, a titan in threadbare finery, and thrust his stapler toward the flickering exit sign. ¡°Dawn finds me in the Obsidian Spire! Let Jenny come with her ¡®metrics¡¯ and ¡®bandwidth¡¯¡ªI¡¯ll answer with this!¡± He flexed. A binder clip shot off his shoulder, nailing Derek¡¯s forehead. Derek adjusted his fogged glasses. ¡°Your VPN¡¯s still¡­¡± ¡°SYNCED!¡± Ben boomed, storming out. Marisa stirred her oat-milk wandcraft. ¡°Jenny¡¯s gonna eat him alive.¡± ¡°Proactive¡­ interdepartmental collaboration,¡± Greg whispered, fishing a Xanax from his fanny pack. Garry snorted in his sleep, a rumble deeper than the HVAC¡¯s death rattle. The door shuddered. Ben loomed before the Vertical Portal¡ªa shuddering steel contraption he¡¯d dubbed ¡°The Throat of the Tower¡±¡ªas Greg cheerfully interrogated a passing intern about their weekend pottery class. First Trial (Lobby Skirmish): ¡°The portal beckons, Greg!¡± Ben barked, jabbing the elevator button like a knight prodding a dragon with a stick. ¡°Our quest brooks no delay!¡± ¡°Two secs!¡± Greg called over his shoulder, high-fiving a janitor. ¡°Manny! How¡¯s your daughter¡¯s recital?¡± Ben¡¯s eye twitched. ¡°You consort with the castle¡¯s scullions?!¡± ¡°She played Hot Cross Buns,¡± Greg sighed, stepping into the elevator. ¡°Twice. It was¡­ formative.¡± Second Trial (The Vertical Gauntlet): The doors groaned shut. Ben glared at the floor numbers like a general surveying a siege map. ¡°Mark my words¡ªthis ascent teems with vipers. Jenny¡¯s spies lurk in every shadow.¡± ¡°Or,¡± Greg mused, waving at Chad¡¯s assistant through the closing doors, ¡°it¡¯s just Jessica from Legal.¡± Ding. Floor 3: Marketing. The doors slid open. A flock of graphic designers scattered, clutching their chai lattes. ¡°Greg!¡± cried a woman in a moth-wing cardigan. ¡°You got my ergonomic chair request approved!¡± Ben barred the doors with his arm, quivering. ¡°We do not tarry!¡± Greg leaned out. ¡°Anytime, Sarah! Wrist stretches save lives!¡± Third Trial (Mid-Floor Ambush): Ding. Floor 5: Accounting. Ben lunged for the ¡°Close Door¡± button, but Greg dodged, greeting a pale man pushing a cart of ledgers. ¡°Steve! How¡¯s the new puppy?¡± ¡°Ate my W-2s,¡± Steve¡¯s voice monotone. Greg clasped his shoulder. ¡°Growth opportunity!¡± Ben¡¯s fist crumpled a styrofoam cup. ¡°You COURT DISASTER!¡± he roared, yanking Greg back. ¡°Must you parley with every serf and scullion?¡± Greg adjusted his ¡°Mental Health Matters¡± pin. ¡°They¡¯re not serfs, Ben. They¡¯re people. You know what happens when Chad ¡®optimizes¡¯ someone? I do. I filed the paperwork. I watch them box up their kid¡¯s crayon drawings.¡± His voice softened. ¡°So yeah, I learn their coffee orders. Their kids¡¯ names. Makes the layoffs hurt less when they know someone¡­ cared.¡± Ben hesitated. Somewhere below, a photocopier whined like a dying griffin. ¡°A warrior¡¯s might,¡± Greg said, tapping Ben¡¯s chest, ¡°isn¡¯t in his sword arm. It¡¯s here. You want loyalty? Remember who hates coconut syrup.¡± The knight-errant stared at Greg¡¯s outstretched hand¡ªa HR pamphlet on ¡°Emotional Intelligence¡± balanced atop his palm. ¡°Bah!¡± Ben swatted it away. ¡°Soft words won¡¯t shield us from Jenny¡¯s wrath!¡± Ding. Floor 12: Jenny¡¯s Floor Outside Jenny¡¯s Office (Floor 12): ¡°Steady, Greg,¡± Ben rumbled, his voice a landslide in the suffocating quiet. He adjusted the cuffs of his suit, its seams groaning under the strain of Ben¡¯s siege-hardened frame. ¡°When the Liaison emerges, we¡¯ll demand answers. A knight does not grovel before bureaucratic phantoms.¡± Greg¡¯s Adam¡¯s apple quivered. ¡°Right. Answers. But maybe we phrase it as a collaborative¡ª¡± ¡°Ben.¡± The name struck like a guillotine blade. Jenny stood behind them, materializing as though the shadows between ceiling tiles had coalesced into a woman. Her blazer, blacker than the door itself, absorbed the light, leaving only the glint of her security badge¡ªa blood-red slash across her breast. Greg¡¯s binder hit the carpet with a thunderclap, pages exploding outward in a paper blizzard of flowcharts and mediation guidelines. ¡°Mr. Tario,¡± Jenny said, her voice smoother than a severance package. She didn¡¯t look at Greg. Didn¡¯t need to. Her gaze pinned Ben like a specimen slide. ¡°Your skill set is no longer¡­ aligned with current objectives.¡± Greg¡¯s laugh hiccuped into a whimper. ¡°But Chad¡¯s all-hands memo said cross-departmental synergy is a Q4 priority! I¡¯ve got the bullet points¡ª¡± He stooped to gather papers, fingers trembling. Jenny¡¯s heel crunched down on a flowchart titled De-Escalation Pathways. ¡°Your bullet points,¡± she said, ¡°are archived.¡± Ben stepped forward, his bulk casting a shadow even Jenny couldn¡¯t eclipse. ¡°The Herald stays. Our covenant was sworn before the Coffee Altar itself!¡± Jenny¡¯s smile was a blade sheathed in frost. ¡°Your ¡®covenant¡¯ violates six HR policies. Greg.¡± Greg froze, a paper crane of conflict resolution strategies crumpled in his fist. ¡°Now.¡± The word wasn¡¯t loud. It didn¡¯t need to be. Greg fled, his loafers squeaking a retreat anthem. At the elevator bank, he turned¡ªjust once¡ªand met Ben¡¯s gaze. His eyes screamed a warning older than corporate time: Don¡¯t. Don¡¯t. Don¡¯t. Then he was gone, leaving Ben alone with the woman who wore shadows like a crown. Bonus Chapter: Ben and the HOA Ben¡¯s apartment was a windswept stronghold, a barren expanse where every object had been stripped of its modern context and reimagined through his warrior¡¯s lens. The obnoxious Sorcerous Lanterns buzzed overhead, their cold light pooling on the Concrete Floors of Echoing Solitude. The Folding Chair of Flimsy Steel stood at attention in the center of the room, its sagging seat a testament to its $19.99 Walmart origins. Beside it, the Inflatable Mattress of Wheezing Despair lay partially deflated, its surface dimpled and uneven, ready to release a mournful sigh at the slightest shift of weight. A knock shattered the silence. Ben¡¯s head snapped toward the door, his hand instinctively reaching for the Butter Knife of Cruel Edge on the counter. He strode across the room, his boots echoing like war drums, and yanked the door open. A man in a polo shirt and khakis stood there, clutching a clipboard like a shield. His name tag read ¡°HOA Representative.¡± Behind him, a woman in a blazer hovered, her expression a mix of determination and thinly veiled disdain. ¡°Sir,¡± the man began, his voice dripping with bureaucratic cheer, ¡°we¡¯re here about your window coverings. The, uh, Star Wars sheet? It¡¯s not in compliance with HOA regulations.¡± Ben¡¯s eyes narrowed. He stepped forward, his shadow swallowing the man whole, ¡°You dare speak to me of regulations?¡± he rumbled, his voice low and dangerous. ¡°That Bedsheet of Faded Heroes is a shield against the city¡¯s relentless glare. A warrior¡¯s necessity.¡± The woman cleared her throat, stepping forward, ¡°Sir, we understand your¡­ unique taste, but the HOA requires uniformity. Blinds or curtains. Neutral colors. It¡¯s in the bylaws.¡± Ben¡¯s gauntleted hand tightened on the doorframe, ¡°Bylaws,¡± he repeated, the word dripping with contempt. ¡°You wield parchment and ink as though they were blades. Tell me, do your bylaws guard against the wyvern¡¯s breath? The marsh wraith¡¯s curse? No. They are the shackles of petty tyrants.¡± The man glanced at his clipboard, then back at Ben, ¡°Sir, if you don¡¯t comply, we¡¯ll have to issue a fine.¡± Ben¡¯s laugh was shook the air, ¡°A fine? You think gold sways me? I¡¯ve faced the Frost Wyrm of Karak¡¯s Pass and the Shadow of the Black Marsh. Your fines are but pebbles against a mountain.¡± The woman¡¯s lips pressed into a thin line, ¡°This isn¡¯t a negotiation, sir. You have seven days to replace the sheet, or we¡¯ll escalate the matter.¡± Ben leaned in, his voice dropping to a graveled whisper, ¡°Escalate, then. But know this: I am Sir Benginold the Strong, Slayer of Vyrathis the Devourer, Bane of the Black Marsh. And I do not yield to scribes nor their scribe works.¡± He slammed the door, the sound echoing like a war horn. The Potted Fern Sentinel trembled in the draft. Ben turned, his gaze falling on the Bedsheet of Faded Heroes, ¡°A shield,¡± he muttered, ¡°not a decoration.¡± He strode to the kitchenette, where the Steel Beast of the Skin (garbage disposal) hummed faintly, ¡°Let them come,¡± he growled, sharpening the Butter Knife of Cruel Edge on the Concrete Balcony of Sharpening. ¡°I¡¯ll not be cowed by the likes of them.¡± Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings. The Cracked Scrying Stone (Greg¡¯s old cell phone) buzzed on the Card Table of Sticky Ghosts, its screen a spiderweb of fractures. Ben glared at it, the device¡¯s feeble chirps muffled by the table¡¯s particleboard surface. He snatched it up, his voice a low growl, ¡°Speak.¡± ¡°Ben! It¡¯s Chad.¡± The voice on the other end was smooth, polished, and dripping with the kind of false cheer that made Ben¡¯s hand twitch toward his Butter Knife of Cruel Edge, ¡°Listen, I heard about the whole HOA thing. Tough break. But, uh, I gotta ask¡ªwhat¡¯s with the Star Wars sheet? It¡¯s not exactly¡­ on-brand.¡± Ben¡¯s eyes narrowed, ¡°On-brand?¡± ¡°Yeah, you know. Synergy. Cohesion. The whole vibe.¡± Chad¡¯s tone was light, but there was an edge to it, like a dagger wrapped in silk, ¡°I mean, Darth Vader? Really? It¡¯s a little¡­ aggressive.¡± Ben¡¯s grip tightened on the phone, ¡°Aggressive,¡± he repeated, his voice a graveled rumble. ¡°You mistake strategy for aggression, Chad. That Bedsheet of Faded Heroes is no mere decoration. It is a tactical advantage.¡± There was a pause on the other end, ¡°A¡­ tactical advantage?¡± ¡°Indeed,¡± Ben said, pacing the length of the apartment, ¡°The warrior in black armor, his blade of crimson light¡ªit is a symbol. A warning. Let my enemies believe a dark sentinel stands guard, his gaze fixed upon their cowardly hearts. Let them tremble at the thought of crossing my threshold.¡± Another pause. Ben could almost hear Chad¡¯s brain short-circuiting, ¡°Okay, but¡­ synergy, Ben. We¡¯re talking about synergy. The HOA¡¯s all about uniformity. Blending in. You¡¯re, uh, not exactly blending.¡± Ben stopped in front of the window, the Bedsheet of Faded Heroes casting a faint shadow of Darth Vader¡¯s helmet across the floor, ¡°Blending,¡± he said, his voice dripping with disdain. ¡°A tactic for prey, not predators. I do not blend, Chad. I dominate.¡± Chad sighed, the sound crackling through the phone, ¡°Look, I get it. You¡¯re a¡­ unique individual. But the HOA¡¯s not gonna back down. They¡¯re talking fines. Escalation. Maybe we can find a compromise? Something that says ¡®Ben¡¯ but also¡­ you know, synergizes?¡± Ben¡¯s lip curled, ¡°Compromise. The refuge of the weak.¡± ¡°Ben¡ª¡± ¡°Enough,¡± Ben snapped, his voice a strong as kraken, ¡°I¡¯ll not barter my stronghold¡¯s defenses for your synergy. Let the HOA come. Let them bring their fines, their bylaws, their petty decrees. They¡¯ll find me ready.¡± He ended the call, the Cracked Scrying Stone trembling in his hand. The Potted Fern Sentinel quivered in the corner, its lone brown leaf trembling as if in agreement. Ben turned to the window, his gaze fixed on the shadow of the black-armored warrior, ¡°A sentinel,¡± he murmured, his voice low and steady. ¡°A warning. Let them come.¡± Chapter 7 Jenny turned without a word, her heels striking the marble with the grim precision of a headsman¡¯s axe. Ben followed, his boots echoing like war drums in the cathedral silence. The elevator doors slid shut behind them, sealing away Greg¡¯s absence. Floor 11 ¨C Legal The air thickened with the musk of settled lawsuits and overbrewed espresso. A woman in a charcoal pantsuit stood sentry by a water cooler, her posture sharper than a subpoena. As they passed, she nodded at Jenny¡ªonce, chin dipping exactly 15 degrees.Ben¡¯s hand twitched toward his hip, grasping for a sword that wasn¡¯t there. ¡°That one reeks of betrayal,¡± he muttered. ¡°A barrister-assassin.¡±Jenny didn¡¯t break stride. ¡°Martha. She drafted your non-disclosure agreement.¡±Martha¡¯s smile cut sideways, a scalpel sliding between ribs. Ben memorized the glint of her pearl earrings¡ªwhite as skulls, he noted¡ªand filed her face under Enemy of the Realm. Floor 8 ¨C Accounting A gaunt man stacked ledgers into a precarious ziggurat, his fingers stained with ink that smelled of iron and regret. He glanced up, eyes hollow as emptied coffers, and dipped his chin at Jenny.She returned the nod.Ben¡¯s keycard hung heavy on its lanyard¡ªa pitiful talisman. ¡°That lickspittle trades in numbers,¡± he hissed. ¡°Coin-counting sorcery!¡±The man¡¯s calculator chirped. CHA-CHUNK. A sound like shackles snapping shut.Jenny thumbed her security badge. ¡°His name¡¯s Robert. He processes your payroll.¡±Ben stared at the ledger towers. For a heartbeat, the numbers writhed¡ª37.6 hours PTO accrued. 2.5 write-ups pending. A cold dread pooled in his gut. Floor 3 ¨C Marketing The stench of desperation and pumpkin spice hung cloying in the air. A graphic designer lurched into their path, her cardigan moth-eaten but her tablet gleaming like a knight¡¯s shield. ¡°Jenny! Did you get my Slack about the brand synergy¡ª¡±Jenny walked through her as though she were fog.The woman wilted, then brightened, spotting Ben. ¡°Oh! You¡¯re the guy from the All-Hands Incident! Can I get a selfie for the¡ª¡±Ben loomed, cataloging her frayed cuffs and chipped nail polish. Turncoat¡¯s guise, he decided. ¡°Your camaraderie is artifice,¡± he growled. ¡°I see your true face.¡±She blinked. ¡°I¡­ literally just want to make memes.¡±Jenny jabbed the elevator button. The doors closed on the woman¡¯s confusion.The open area outside the janitor¡¯s closet stretched vast and barren, its walls stripped of motivational posters, its corners empty of vending machines. The air hung heavy with a metallic tang, like blood on the back of the tongue.Jenny stopped before the unmarked steel door. A single flickering bulb cast her face in jagged shadows. ¡°This is where the world ends,¡± she said flatly, opening the door, its mundane steel frame trembling faintly as if breathing. Ben stared into the void beyond¡ªa darkness that swallowed the hallway. Beside him, Jenny¡¯s finished donning her armor. It gleamed faintly, her gauntleted hand gripping the doorframe like a soldier bracing for siege.¡°The first floor is a gate, not a battle,¡± she said, her voice taut. ¡°You¡¯ll see a wooden arch. It won¡¯t open until you declare your name or purpose. Clearly. No riddles. No grand speeches.¡±Ben smirked, hefting the butter knife that had inexplicably sharpened into a serrated blade. ¡°A gate? You dragged me here to state my name?¡±Jenny¡¯s gauntlet slammed against the wall, rattling bleach bottles. ¡°Men die on that floor, Ben. Not from blades¡ªfrom pride. The Tower doesn¡¯t care how many battles you¡¯ve won. Refuse its rules, and you¡¯ll starve in the dark, screaming at a door a child could open.¡±The First Floor: Initiation GateShe stepped closer, her breath frosting in the unnatural cold seeping from the closet. ¡°When the gate appears, you speak. Not to me, not to your gods¡ªto the Tower. ¡®I am Ben.¡¯ ¡®I will climb.¡¯ It doesn¡¯t need poetry. It needs truth.¡±Ben leaned into the dark, squinting. For a heartbeat, he glimpsed it¡ªa weathered wooden arch, its timbers groaning under the weight of centuries. ¡°And if I say nothing?¡±¡°Then you¡¯ll rot.¡± Jenny¡¯s voice frayed. ¡°Chad found a skeleton there once. Still clutching a sword, jaw pried open like it tried to speak postmortem. Don¡¯t be that fool.¡±Ben snorted. ¡°You think I¡¯d choke on two words?¡±¡°I think you¡¯d rather die than admit you¡¯re afraid.¡± Her gauntlet seized his wrist, cold seeping through his sleeve. ¡°This isn¡¯t a battlefield¡ªit¡¯s a test. Fail it, and there¡¯s no second chance. No glory. Just¡­ silence.¡±He wrenched free. ¡°You¡¯re overreacting. It¡¯s a door.¡±Jenny went very still. When she spoke again, her voice was a blade dragged across stone. ¡°The second floor holds a beast. The third, a maze. The fourth, your own voice turned traitor. But you¡¯ll never see them if you mock the gate.¡±The closet¡¯s darkness deepened, the wooden arch now fully visible in the void¡ªa skeletal thing, its planks etched with names. Aric. Lira. Halthorn. Dozens more, half-eroded.Ben¡¯s smirk faded. ¡°Are those¡­?¡±¡°The ones who hesitated.¡± Jenny turned away. ¡°Declare yourself or don¡¯t. But know this¡ªChad bowed at that gate. The greatest warrior of our age. You¡¯re not half what he is.¡±The door creaked wider, the arch¡¯s timbers groaning.Ben stepped forward, blade raised.Jenny¡¯s final warning chased him: ¡°Pride is the first hunger the Tower feeds on.¡±The door slammed.Darkness.The Gate loomed, ancient and unyielding. The tower, a monolithic spire of darkened wood, clawed at the sky, its peak lost in the swirling mist above. A weight emanated from its aged timbers, a sense of centuries pressing down, yet beneath it, a strange undercurrent tugged at Ben ¨C a whisper of knowing. Across its vast flank, carved names glowed faintly, like embers in twilight. Each inscription pulsed with a spectral luminescence, a silent, collective moan of those who had attempted and failed. As Ben gazed upon them, a flicker of recognition sparked in his mind, fleeting and indistinct, like a half-remembered dream. He couldn''t place it, this sense of having been here before, but it resonated deep within him. Before this daunting monument, Ben stood firm, a subtle furrow in his brow.He drew a breath, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves, a scent that, too, felt strangely¡­known. Then, with a voice that echoed in the stillness, Ben opened his mouth, ¡°I am Sir Benginold the Strong, Slayer of Vyrathis the Devourer, Vanquisher of Villains, Wymarc of the Iron Sword and I WILL CLIMB THE TOWER!¡± If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it. Ben staggered from the Tower, sweat slicking his brow. The heavy wooden door, now closed behind him, emitted a final, deep groan that still resonated in the otherwise silent room. Jenny leaned against the bare stone wall of the empty space, arms crossed. Her armor, dull grey metal, caught the faint light filtering from an unseen source, reflecting it with a cold, hard glint.¡°Two hours,¡± she stated, her voice flat. ¡°To say ¡®I am Ben¡¯.¡±Ben straightened, a flush rising on his face despite the sweat. ¡°The door demanded¡­ presence. I gave it appropriate grandeur.¡± Had the Tower mangled his mind and distorted time? ¡°My time within the Tower was but a brief moment,¡± Ben said. Jenny pushed away from the wall, the stone cold against her armored back. ¡°Another person spoke three words. The door opened without issue. You are here to proceed.¡± She inclined her head towards the second door in the room, plain and unadorned, a simple placard beside it reading: ¡°Janitor''s Closet.¡± ¡°Floor Two. Try not to perish.¡±¡°I have died more times than you¡¯ve breathed!¡± Ben retorted, tugging at his dark fabric coat as if adjusting armor fit for a king.¡°That is¡­ not the flex you think it is, Ben,¡± Jenny replied, her voice losing any trace of warmth, becoming sharp and edged. ¡°Floor Two¡¯s creatures are indifferent to tales of your past glories. They will tear apart your body and consume what makes you, you.¡±Ben scoffed, a short, dismissive sound. ¡°Creatures? I fear nothing. They will become the vanquished.¡±Jenny moved closer, her gaze unwavering. ¡°The Stray is not some simple beast. It is quick, always hungry, and it does not adhere to rules of combat once you attack.¡± She tapped her temple with a gauntlet finger. ¡°It learns. The last one who faced it? A skilled warrior from another group. The Stray devoured his body¡­ and his soul. Not to mention it ate his sword¡­¡±Ben¡¯s confident grin held firm, growing stronger as Jenny spoke. ¡°An overgrown dog, then. I have dealt with many.¡±¡°Dogs do not evolve,¡± Jenny countered, her voice tight. ¡°This one observes. Allow it to survive your initial encounter, and it will analyze your movements, your strategies.¡± Her hand shot out, gripping his arm, a faint static charge prickling his skin through the fabric of his coat. ¡°You are saturated in self-importance, Ben. That is what it will truly devour.¡±He yanked his arm back, his grip tightening on the mug he carried. ¡°Then let it choke on arrogance.¡±Jenny¡¯s laugh was a dry, humorless sound. ¡°The last individual who expressed such sentiments did not return. This is perilous. Dangerous.¡±Ben¡¯s eye visibly twitched. ¡°Your nagging will not diminish my resolve, scribe.¡±¡°Your resolve?¡± Jenny flicked an invisible speck from his coat. ¡°That drinking vessel would shatter against a stiff breeze. But very well. Meet your end.¡± She turned and walked towards the door labeled ¡°Janitor¡¯s Closet,¡± the painted letters seeming to glow with a faint, unsettling light. ¡°Simply be aware¡ªI have given you clear warnings. You disregarded it.¡±Ben spat onto the stone floor. ¡°I will demonstrate true valor. This Tower will yield before me. It will know my strength, my increasingly formidable strength.¡±Jenny glanced back, a sharp, mirthless curve to her lips. ¡°You would do well to maintain that bravado when you confront The Stray. I have witnessed strong individuals break merely from meeting its gaze.¡±Ben cracked his knuckles. Finally a foe that could get his blood moving. Chapter 8 The moss-cloaked stone stretched endlessly, roots twisting like the veins of some slumbering leviathan. Twilight clung to the air, thick and honeyed, as if time itself had slowed to savor the moment. At the heart of it all stood the wolf¡ªa creature of winter and wildfire, its fur white as bone yet shimmering faintly, as though dusted with starlight. Five feet tall at the shoulder, its molten gold eyes held the weight of centuries, pupils slit like a dragon¡¯s. It did not snarl. Did not stalk. It simply existed, a king in a kingdom of shadows. Ben¡¯s mug materialized in his grip, steaming with phantom coffee that smelled of burnt oak and nostalgia, ¡°Finally. A fight worth¡ª¡± The clay screamed. Cracks spiderwebbed across its surface as the handle elongated, molten steel bleeding from the fissures. Heat rippled outward, warping the air as the mug dissolved into liquid fire that coiled around Ben¡¯s fist. The molten metal solidified, birthing Dragonsdeathbringer¡ªa blade longer than Ben was tall, its obsidian core etched with stormclouds that churned and roiled across the steel. Lightning danced along the edge, humming a dirge of forgotten skies. Jenny staggered back, gauntleted hand raised against the sword¡¯s aura. Her armor¡ªa masterwork of ancient runes¡ªshivered and hissed, its enchantments recoiling. ¡°What is that?¡± Ben flexed his grip, the blade¡¯s hilt fitting his palm like a lover¡¯s whisper. ¡°Told you I kept the mug for a reason.¡± Jenny¡¯s breath fogged in the sudden cold radiating from the sword. ¡°Was that your¡­ mug?¡± The wolf tilted its head, unafraid. Its breath fogged the air¡ªsweet, like pine sap and summer rain¡ªand it padded forward, each step silent despite its size. Nostrils flared as it sniffed the blade¡¯s edge, then yawned, revealing teeth like ivory daggers. Jenny gripped her own sword, its pale flame guttering in Dragonsdeathbringer¡¯s shadow. ¡°The beast won¡¯t strike first. Kill it. Bypass it. Your choice. But choose quickly.¡± Ben frowned. The wolf¡¯s gaze held no malice¡ªonly curiosity, tinged with something darker. Loneliness, perhaps. Or recognition. ¡°You want me to slaughter this?¡± Ben¡¯s blade dipped, its lightning dimming. ¡°For glory?¡± ¡°For survival,¡± Jenny snapped. The chamber¡¯s roots creaked as if agreeing. ¡°The Tower rewards pragmatism, not poetry. Kill it, or sneak past. Those are the rules.¡± The wolf nudged Dragonsdeathbringer with its muzzle. A spark leapt from the blade, dancing across its fur, and the beast sneezed¡ªa sound like a rockslide. Ben laughed, the sword¡¯s hum harmonizing with his voice. ¡°Look at him! He¡¯s playing.¡± Jenny¡¯s gauntlet tightened on her hilt, ¡°That ¡®pup¡¯ tore out the throat of the last climber who hesitated.¡± The wolf circled Ben, tail swaying like a banner. A scar glinted beneath its ear¡ªa jagged thing, too precise to be natural. A blade¡¯s kiss, Ben realized. ¡°You¡¯ve been here too long, haven¡¯t you?¡± Ben murmured, sheathing Dragonsdeathbringer across his back. The wolf froze, ears pricked. ¡°Guarding a door no one thanks you for. Fighting fools too scared to meet your eye.¡± Jenny lunged forward. ¡°Ben, don¡¯t¡ª¡± The wolf lunged¡ªnot at Ben¡¯s throat, but his outstretched hand. Its teeth closed gently around his wrist, cold as moonlit steel, and tugged him toward the exit. Jenny¡¯s blade faltered. ¡°Impossible.¡± Ben grinned, scratching the beast¡¯s chin. ¡°You¡¯re just a big softie, aren¡¯t you?¡± The wolf¡¯s tail thumped once, shaking the moss beneath them. Then it released Ben, flopped onto its back, and pawed at the air, tongue lolling. Jenny¡¯s voice cracked. ¡°No one tames the Trial. They survive it. They endure it.¡± Ben knelt, running a hand through the wolf¡¯s star-flecked fur. ¡°Maybe no one asked it to dance first.¡± Above them, the chamber¡¯s runes flared¡ªnot in warning, but approval. The wolf¡ªWhitebane¡ªrolled to its feet and bounded to the exit, pausing to glance back, eyes gleaming with something like laughter. Jenny stared at the moss where the wolf had lain. A single white fur clung to her armor, glowing faintly. ¡°Chad slew a goblin,¡± she whispered. ¡°Tore out its heart. And you¡­ you befriended a wolf.¡± Ben shrugged, following Whitebane into the gloom. ¡°Dragons are nothing to me, Sir Benginold the Strong, Slayer of Vyrathis the Devourer, Vanquisher of Villains, Wymarc of the Iron Sword and my blade,¡± he held up his sword. ¡°DRAGONSDEATHBRINGER!¡± ¡°That didn¡¯t tell me anything,¡± Jenny said, palm on her face. Ben pat Whitebane, rubbing the beast ear, ¡°I wrote a dissertation on Comparative Ethology of Apex Predator Entities of the Ante-Diluvian Megafauna, its was on my Resume.¡± The Path of Shifting Stones The archway¡¯s threshold dissolved like smoke, hurling them into the oppressive belly of a cavernous maze forged of living stone. Before them, walls of jagged granite arched upward like the ribs of a long-forgotten titan, their surfaces alive with pulsing veins of molten amber that threw a hellish glow across every crevice. The air was thick with the tang of scorched earth and the metallic bite of ancient iron; every labored breath left Ben¡¯s tongue tasting as if dipped in a searing forge. With every step, the labyrinth shuddered¡ªstones grinding like colossal, tectonic teeth and corridors twisting and contorting as if guided by some unseen, primordial will. The Tower¡¯s inner sanctum was not a mere structure but a living beast, its very bowels reshaping in time with a silent, terrible heartbeat. In the midst of this quaking chaos, Jenny¡¯s blade sprang to life. Its pale flame flickered uncertainly against the suffocating dark, casting jittering shadows on the heaving stone. ¡°Stay close,¡± she barked, her voice taut as a drawn wire. ¡°The maze changes. Hesitate for a second and it¡¯ll trap you in a tomb even Chad couldn¡¯t crack.¡± Ben, ever the cavalier, strode ahead with arms crossed and a devil-may-care grin, his boots crushing gravel into fine, drifting dust. ¡°If I hesitate, I¡¯ll miss lunch. Whitebane?¡± This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. At his call, the wolf padded forward. Whitebane¡¯s tail wagged in defiant cheer. His nose skimming the uneven floor, while his claws clicked rhythmically against the stone¡ªeach measured step scattering tiny sparks that danced briefly along the amber filigree of the walls. ¡°Ben!¡± Jenny hissed in alarm, her tone slicing through the murmur of shifting stone. ¡°You can¡¯t just¡ªwalk¡ª¡± Before she could finish, the maze answered with a roar: from the floor erupted a wall of pitted granite, a sudden barrier crowned with teeth-like protrusions that clawed at the air. Ten feet of solid stone rushed upward with brutal inevitability. Ben, however, never slowed his stride. ¡°Ben, stop¡ª!¡± He barreled straight into the granite mass with a force that made the very air shudder. A thunderous crack rent the heavy silence. In an explosion of splintering stone and shrapnel, the wall burst outward, debris cascading around him like a hailstorm of ancient rubble. Dust billowed thickly, stinging Jenny¡¯s eyes as she raised her blade defensively. When the particulate storm finally cleared, Ben stood untouched¡ªhis shadow-forged cloak already speckled with fine remnants of shattered rock. Whitebane, ever the nimble guardian, bounded through the newly carved gap, pausing only to sneeze and shake stone chips from his mottled fur. Jenny¡¯s breath hitched as she stared at the ruin. ¡°You¡­ broke it.¡± ¡°Broke what?¡± Ben replied, squinting at the scattered rubble. He kicked a stray shard, sending it skittering into the gloom with a clatter that defied the laws of physics. ¡°It¡¯s an illusion. Mostly.¡± ¡°No.¡± Jenny¡¯s tone hardened as she drove her blade into a fallen slab. A metallic shriek erupted¡ªa discord of sparks and shrill tones echoing off the walls. ¡°Solid. Chad lost three men here. Crushed beneath this unforgiving weight. Their armor looked like foil, barely clinging to life.¡± Ben offered only a shrug in response, ¡°Maybe they didn¡¯t hit it hard enough.¡± At that, the maze itself groaned in response. Another wall surged upward behind them, sealing their retreat. The amber veins along its surface flared a furious crimson, throbbing like enraged arteries struggling to contain an ancient, boiling blood. Jenny wheeled on him, blade raised in urgent alarm. ¡°We¡¯re trapped¡ª¡± But before she could finish, Ben slammed his palm against the new barrier. A shockwave rippled outward, carving fissures that snaked across the stone¡¯s face. For a suspended heartbeat, the very rock seemed to scream¡ªa sound akin to grinding glaciers¡ªand then, as if succumbing to an unstoppable force, it disintegrated into a cascade of gravel. Whitebane lunged through the opening, kicking up a storm of dust as he vanished into the maze¡¯s shifting, labyrinthine guts. Jenny¡¯s gaze fixed on Ben¡¯s hand¡ªunscarred, steady, as if mocking the chaos around them. ¡°That¡¯s¡­ not how the Trial works. You¡¯re supposed to adapt. To solve¡ª¡± ¡°I am solving it.¡± Ben crouched beside a section of the floor where a faint glyph was etched¡ªa spiral that mirrored the scar etched along Whitebane¡¯s flank. The stone hummed beneath his touch, a resonant murmur that echoed the low growl of stormclouds churning in the ominous gleam of Dragonsdeathbringer¡¯s blade. ¡°This place¡­ I¡¯ve seen it before. Not here, exactly, but somewhere¡­ older. Far older.¡± Jenny¡¯s gauntleted hand seized his shoulder, her eyes blazing with equal parts fear and determination. ¡°The Tower pulls from your memory. It¡¯s lying to you.¡± Ben shook her off with a dismissive force. ¡°No. It¡¯s reminding me.¡± The maze convulsed again, this time with a violent shudder. Walls folded inward like closing fists, sealing off the path behind them as if erasing their past. Ahead, a new corridor yawed open¡ªa chasm of darkness whose ceiling bristled with quartz stalactites, each one as sharp and merciless as a guillotine¡¯s blade. Whitebane whimpered, his paw tapping insistently against Ben¡¯s boot. ¡°He¡¯s right,¡± Ben murmured, his eyes narrowing as he surveyed the labyrinth¡¯s shifting geometry. ¡°This suit¡¯s rubbish here.¡± With a fluid motion, he shrugged off Greg¡¯s tattered blazer, letting it crumple and tumble to the cold stone floor. ¡°I need a cloak. Something with¡­ verve.¡± Jenny scoffed at his levity even as the weight of their predicament pressed in around them. ¡°You¡¯re in a death maze, not a tailor¡¯s¡ª¡± Before she could finish, the Tower answered its own riddle. Threads of shadow began to peel from the very walls, twisting and writhing like living serpents drawn to an unseen master. They slithered toward Ben, coiling around his shoulders with deliberate purpose. In moments, they wove themselves into a cloak darker than the void, its edges hungrily devouring the amber light that dared to touch them. The fabric clung to him as if alive¡ªa sentient shroud whose jagged collar rose like a crown of blades framing his resolute jaw. Whitebane¡¯s howl split the oppressive silence¡ªa cry that shook loose stones from the high ceiling and sent tremors rippling through the floor. Jenny staggered back, disbelief mingling with dread. ¡°That¡¯s¡­ not possible. The Tower doesn¡¯t gift. It takes.¡± Ben flexed his fingers, and the cloak billowed around him without a whisper of wind. ¡°Maybe it¡¯s finally met someone worth dressing.¡± He offered a wry nod toward the wolf. ¡°Which way?¡± Whitebane, as if in silent command, lunged down the quartz-studded corridor. Without a moment¡¯s hesitation, Ben followed, the maze¡¯s walls shattering before him as if compelled to make way¡ªa cascade of glass-like fragments splintering under the force of his momentum. Behind them, Jenny lingered a moment longer, her eyes catching on Greg¡¯s abandoned blazer. As she knelt to retrieve it, a faded sticky note detached and fluttered to the floor in a mocking whisper: ¡°Ben¡ªDry Clean Only!! ¡ªGreg¡±