The City, Part IV (Dust & Dragon Lore)

Veronica finishes talking, telling us about what had happened when her and I were separated in the shop square. It's not some grand dramatic finale. There's no crescendo or climax. She just... runs out of words.

"I don't even remember anything after that… thing, opened its mouth. I just remember running… Running as fast as I could, until…" Her voice trails off like smoke, and then she's silent. Hollow-eyed. Still.

And I'm just staring.

"So," I say, slowly putting my tankard down, "you saw your dead grandma—or something looking like her, at least—and now you're a contestant in a murder lottery."

"Pretty much," she mutters. Her hands are laced together in front of her like she's praying they don't shake. Her knuckles are practically white.

I glance at Jelly Boy. He's sipping from his tiny cup with obscene slurping noises. At least someone's having a good time.

Clyde hasn't spoken this entire time. His face is unreadable, which means he's either furious or calculating. Probably both. His beer remains untouched. Finally, he speaks. "We don't know if the Soul-touched need to be murdered by each other, or even die. Veronica, what did the System messages say again?"

Veronica pulls up the messages in her interface and carefully reads them to us again.

[Trait: Soul-touched]

[Description: You have been Soul-touched. One hundred Participants entering their Bronze Gate have been Soul-touched by the threads of Chernobog. As one of the Soul-touched you gain the following benefits: (1) Increased Experience Upon Level Up, (2) Increased Stat Growth Upon Level Up, and (3) Access to Soul Confluence.]

[Quest: Soul-touched]

[Description: You are one of the 100 Soul-touched of Chernobog.]

[Objective: Be the last remaining Soul-touched of Chernobog actively participating in the God Game.]

[Note: Each time a Soul-touched is Eliminated from the God Game, there will be a Soul Confluence. During a Soul Confluence, all increased Stat Gains held by the Eliminated Soul-touched will be distributed to the remaining Soul-touched.]

[Reward: 1 Divine Boon]

"Soul-touched," I repeat, letting the words hang in the air, tasting them. This was the first System-generated thing that referenced that Game in quite some time. It was a reminder of why the System had come to Earth in the first place. "I hate this Game," I mutter.

"I don't think any murder or death is necessary," says Clyde, rubbing his chin.

"What do you mean?" asks Veronica. "Do I need to read the Quest description to you again?"

"The objective is to be the last one 'actively participating in the God Game,' not the last living Soul-touched."

Veronica separates her hands and shakes them to get the blood moving again. "What else could that possibly be referring to?"

"Think about it for a moment," he says.

I take a sip from my tankard and I see where he's going with this. "You think there will be ways to be Eliminated from the Game that doesn't involve strictly dying," I say. My mind thinks back to some of the earlier System messages I had received.

Elimination Type: Culling.

All Participants will be entered into the Game. If you choose to accept, you will be one of the first inhabitants integrated into the Interdimensional Uniform System.

"I do," he says. "I have a lot of questions about why Earth is being integrated into the System. Not sure I'll ever get those answers. But it doesn't make sense to kill off practically all the new System-enhanced humans."

His logic makes sense. Or, at least I hope it does. Maybe it's just wishful thinking.

Veronica breathes out a shaky breath. "That's a very good point. Though it doesn't stop the others from realizing the easiest way of taking Participants out of the Game may be killing them… I guess that's a problem for after we get out of this Gate."

I place a hand on her shoulder and raise my tankard. "And for now, you gets some pretty kickass boosts! So, cheers to that!"

We all clink our tankards together, including Jelly Boy who uses a pseudopod to raise his own slime-sized glass.

He's getting very good at using those things, I observe. And for more than scrolling through reality television series.

Veronica downs half her tankard in one go. She slams it onto the table, looking up to me. "So, wizard boy, what kind of trouble did you get in?"

Clyde leans in closer.

I explain my encounter with the elves in the alley.

"As soon as I was back int the street, I slammed on my Speed Boost Skill and booked it in the direction of the Monster Hunters Association. When I got there, Clyde was just coming down the street."

"And you're sure they didn't follow you?" Clyde asks.

"Not sure," I reply. "But I don't think so."

"Hm." He scratches his chin again. "Probably better to lay low for the rest of the day. Hopefully we can get some information here and can leave the city tomorrow morning, after picking up supplies."

"Were you able to find the moneychanger?" Veronica asks.

Clyde confirms that he was in fact able to find the moneychanger without issue. He kept thirty-three gold pieces without converting them to lesser currency. The remaining twenty-five gold pieces he converted to five thousand bronze chips and twelve thousand silver pennies because, he discovered, silver was the most common denomination. We agree to let Clyde hold onto our currency for now to avoid any troubles with exchanging thousands of individual coins out in the open.

Veronica then runs through the list of items, supplies and equipment we saw during our shopping trip. Noting the shop location and price of each item.

"How do you remember all that?" I ask.

"Remember?" she asks, quirking an eyebrow. "I just used the interface's notetaking function."

"There's a notetaking function?!"

Clyde palms his forehead.

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Clyde tosses me another handful of bronze chips and I grab us another round. We continue chatting about what provisions and equipment we would prioritize purchasing. After twisting her arm a bit, Veronica finally agrees to using a significant portion in getting her more armor.

"You're our frontliner and we don't have a dedicated healer, so we need to keep you as sturdy as possible," says Clyde.

"I agree with Clyde," I add. "I'm a glass cannon and am OK leaning into that, at least for a bit longer. Especially if you're going to be drawing most of the monsters' aggro."

She swallows. "The idea of being the frontline against a dragon isn't a comforting thought."

"Baby steps," I say, grinning. I'm feeling a slight headiness from the brown ale.

Jelly Boy buzzes, but he's deflated to a puddle-like clump of ooze on the table. "I gotta cut you off, buddy," I say, gently patting the jelly-like pile.

"Looks like your spirits are a little less soggy." It's Calarel. She's approaching our table, a foaming flagon in each hand, eyes flicking from Veronica to me to Clyde, lingering for a beat too long on Jelly Boy, who waves with a jiggle and immediately topples back his tiny ale cup. She blinks, amused. "Well. I did say you weren't the standard lot."

Clyde grunts. "You find something for us?"

"I did," she says, folding her arms over her chainmail with a metallic creak. "Now, listen. I'm not in the habit of encouraging baby Hunters to go chasing dragons for their first Mark. I like my fresh meat with their limbs still attached. At least until they learn the ropes."

"Appreciated," I mutter.

"But I also can't stop you from asking the wrong questions to the right people." She jerks her chin toward a wide doorway flanked by sconce torches burning blue. She gives us a dramatic sigh. "Follow me. I've got just the man."

We gather our things—including Jelly Boy under one arm—and follow. She leads us through the far side of the hall, toward an arched doorway with a plaque that reads: The Archive of Beasts and Bastards.

"This is where our more bookish members like to congregate," Calarel says over her shoulder.

We enter a hallway thick with the scent of old parchment and singed fabric, turning left, then right, and then down a long, cold corridor. Eventually, we emerge into a space that looks like a dozen libraries got drunk, had an orgy, and gave birth to a two-story research monstrosity. Books, scrolls, ledgers, glowing crystal tablets—they're everywhere. Shelves curve into spiral staircases. There's no rhyme or reason to the room's layout. Men and women man counters and desks that are scattered throughout the space. A few dash across the shelves, snagging a pamphlet or volume of text on their way. I try not to think too hard about how anyone actually finds what they're looking for in here. I don't think this Realm has heard of the Dewey Decimal System.

Calarel barely pauses to let us gawk. She moves through the chaos with a practiced precision.

We follow her to the very back of the room where things get… weirder.

There's a small wooden counter tucked into the corner like it's ashamed to be part of this place. It's cluttered with quills, bottles of ink, and a lantern emitting a soft glowing light. From within it a glowing crystal softly hums. Behind it sits a man.

He's an elf with pale skin dusted with so many freckles he looks like a constellation map, gray eyes the color of dead winter fog, and thinning brown hair flecked with gray. His build and posture are less 'monster hunter' and more 'middle-aged adjunct archaeology professor.' He's wearing a burgundy waistcoat with matching pants, and his mustache and chin beard look like they were glued on at random, thin and patchy. There are at least five earrings dangling from each long, pointed ear—one of them shaped like a tiny skull with little rubies for eyes.

The man's gray eyes are unfocused, staring out in space. He clearly doesn't notice us as we approach. It's like he's in a trance.

"Mr. Langhis," Calarel announces, and the man jerks upright with a start.

"Mm? Wha—yes. Yes, that's me. Who wants to know? I wasn't napping. You have no proof!" His eyes settle on Calarel, then flick to us. "Oh. You brought me… clients."

"Don't get excited," she says. "They're potentially idiots with a death wish."

I raise my hand. "Confirmed."

She gestures to us with a sweeping arm like we're freshly caught specimens. "These three are looking for dragon intel. I figured if anyone had half a clue where a scaled monstrosity might be hiding its armor-plated ass, it'd be you."

Langhis blinks slowly. Then smiles. "Dragons, huh? Delightful. Suicidal, but delightful."

He licks his thumb, flips open a massive book, and beckons us forward with one ink-stained finger. "Well then. Let's find you something worth dying for." The pages of the book are filled with compact lines of black script in neat columns.

"Aha!" Langhis exclaims.

He slaps his book shut and spins on his heel with the enthusiasm of a man who's had entirely too much caffeine, which is alarming given the fact that seconds ago he had just been sleeping with his eyes open. "Wait here. Don't touch anything. Especially not that." He doesn't point to anything in particular, so I just take a cautious half-step away from his table. Jelly Boy freezes mid-motion, a pseudopod extended forward. He retracts the slimy appendage and looks upward, minding his own business.

The strange elf man darts into the shelves behind him—really more of a mess of groaning wood, tangled ladders, and precariously leaning stacks of bound tomes and loose parchment.

A few seconds of crashing, swearing, and something that sounds suspiciously like a sneeze and a scream rolled into one, and he's back. In his hands he holds one thin, red-leather-bound book and a scroll tied with green string.

"There we are," he says, patting both items. He reaches the table and scans its cluttered surface for some free real estate before gently placing them down.

"Storm Dragons," he says. "There are several variety of dragons native to this continent. Let me know if you're interested in a specific species. But Storm Dragons are abundant and the most accessible for study. Closest kind you'll find to the City, by far. Temperamental bastards, though. Mood swings so nasty they could level an entire town if caught on a bad day. But generally reclusive. Territorial. You know. Introverts with a taste for lightning and thunder, and all that..."

"When you say closest to the City, how close are we talking, exactly?" I ask, bracing myself for a disappointing answer.

Langhis points at the scroll he'd carried over from the shelves. "Mount Alkazab. Five days on foot, give or take. Don't try teleporting, whatever you do. The storm aura generated by the dragons makes teleportation magic near the peak go wonky! Even if it did function normally, bad things happen when you blink into the middle of a dragon's nap. This"—he waves the red book—"is my colleague's work. Observational notes, historical sightings, behavioral patterns, yadda yadda. Not comprehensive, but better than most anything else you'll find within these city walls."

I reach for the book, placing a hand on the firm, cold leather cover. "Thanks, this'll—"

He doesn't let go.

His eyes narrow. "Dragon lore isn't free. It's not even cheap."

Clyde steps forward, arms crossed, his face stern. "How much are we talkin'?"

Langhis sniffs. "Fifteen gold."

I choke. "For a journal?"

"It's a one-of-a-kind item," he says.

"It's got blood on the corner," Clyde points out.

"Which only raises its value." He lifts his eyebrows. "Authenticity, my good man. My friend bled to gain this knowledge."

We haggle. The experience is nothing like my experience on deal negotiations back in New York City. Rather, haggling with Langhis is more like arguing with a caffeinated librarian who's also read The Art of the Deal. But eventually, we grind him down to nine gold, which Clyde and I were both happy with (at least with our minimal understanding of value in this world). Clyde pulls the coins from his Inventory. He extends a hand, dropping the coins into Langhis' waiting palms.

The elf does a quick count of the coins and, happy with the accounting, hands the books over to Clyde.

Clyde opens the book, flips through a few pages, eyes scanning. Then he glances up at me and nods once. "This'll do. Assuming it's accurate."

"Oh, rest assured, my colleague was thorough in his work. It's accurate."

Veronica, who's been eyeing the scroll this entire time, finally asks, "And what's the scroll?"

Langhis beams. "Map. Mount Alkazab. And the surrounding area, including this City. Trail markings, known leyline disruptions, and some other information the cartography found noteworthy."

"Huh," I say. "And does it also mark the Storm Dragon nests?"

"You don't seem like you're from around here," the dusty elf adds, tone teasing but not unkind. "So, I thought it might help. It does in fact mark the nesting grounds."

I reach out for it. "Mind if I take a peek first?"

"Be my guest," he says, magnanimous as a goblin king.

I untie the scroll, unroll it carefully. The parchment is old but not crumbling, the ink a faded black scrawl, not quite hand-written but not printed either. When I open my System Map and try to update it, I'm met with a window slamming into my vision.

ERROR: [Map] cannot be updated.

Map of [Mount Alkazab] cannot be integrated into your [Map] menu because neither you, nor a member of your party, owns the physical copy of this map.

I sigh. Of course, nothing could be that easy.

Clyde sighs too. "How much for the scroll?"

"One gold," Langhis says, a little too quickly.

Another haggle. This time it's an utter loss and we gain no ground on the elf. Langhis knows we're not walking away from it. He's already seen us flinch and now he's got us by the metaphorical balls.

"Fine," I mutter.

Clyde tosses him the coin. We pass the map around, each of us opening our interfaces to sync it into our System Map of the Realm. A soft ding marks the update.

Regional Map updated!

You have received a Map [Mount Alkazab].

Access Regional Maps using the [Map] Menu.

The trail to Alkazab, the terrain paths, the marker denoting Storm Dragon Nests—it all pops up in full, terrifying clarity.

I stow the physical map in my Inventory without another word.

"Pleasure doing business," Langhis says with a wink, already setting the scroll and book money into a wooden and metal lockbox that he pulled from beneath his table.

We nod, say our thanks, and walk away, a dragon's home address now in hand.

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