Teva’ryn rode off into the sunset on a bicycle.

He would be traveling by night, which wasn’t actually that much of a problem because of how bright the moonlight in this world was. But riding a bicycle? It felt wrong somehow, in spite of all the practical reasons. Players and adventurers getting around on a bike wasn’t uncommon. It was cheap, and faster than walking. Trains and airships were available too but only between major cities, and buying a goleton mount wasn’t any good either because it required a constant supply of mana. Hence the bikes. Riding one wasn’t very videogame-like, but the Inspectors allowed them.

What surprised me even more was that Sylven were able to ride bicycles too. This topic hadn’t really come up with Devi before, and so it surprised me that bikes were popular in the post-apocalyptic world of the blue-skinned elves too—though it was only the men who used them, of course. Riding bikes was too dangerous for women, and where would they have gone anyway? Their place was at the safety of their home, Devi had bitterly told me. Her only reaction to Teva’ryn’s departure was to add riding a bike to the list of things she wanted to learn. As far as she was concerned, we were better off without Teva’ryn.

The same couldn’t be said about Imaya, who hadn’t come to say farewell to him. She had stayed with us – just as Teva’ryn had said she would – but it obviously wasn’t an easy decision for her. I almost wished she had gone with Teva’ryn instead—that way I wouldn’t have felt so guilty. I needed her help with the Dungeon, sure. But I wasn’t a good friend, or even a reliable one.

I wasn’t convinced that in Imaya’s place I would have wanted anyone consoling me, but Devi was determined to try. She strode off to find Imaya, and so I was left alone. I decided to make my way down to the Refuge; plenty of things to occupy me down there.

You have entered the Dungeon: Randel’s Refuge
The Dungeon Core of Randel’s Refuge has been restored.

I smiled a little as I smelled fresh bread. Erika could complain all she wanted, but in my opinion letting the Avarii open shops was already paying off. They made the Refuge feel friendlier.

Soft music drifted my way when I stepped onto the lower gallery, coming from the central hub of the Refuge down below. I wavered for a moment, but decided to investigate later. First I wanted to check on our resident blacksmith, and so I limped along the gallery toward the smithy. Thinking about the blacksmith made me more conscious of my prosthetic leg; I might have just imagined things, but it felt heavier than usual. Perhaps it was running out of juice? No, we knew that it was as heavy as always. We didn’t think that the essence concentration made our leg lighter anyway; it was used only to bend the ankle and the knee. Well, then. I felt so convinced that I supposed it was true.

The smithy occupied a large but otherwise nondescript stone building. Glowing clovers had grown halfway over the nameplate that hung over the entrance, making it practically unreadable. The place was deadly quiet until I crossed the entrance, passing a line of sound-absorbing runes in the wall. The sharp clang of hammer on steel made me flinch right away, even though I was already expecting it.

The smithy was full of various scraps of metal, most of them scavenged from the ruins of the city above. I navigated around the piles of junk until I caught sight of the forge and the enormous Noruk working by it. Barumm the Rolling Boulder of Nature – or just simply Barumm to his friends – was a big guy even by Noruk standards, yet he was surprisingly deft with the hammer in his meaty hand. The Noruk was a species that had only three stubby fingers on their hands, but Barumm compensated for this with a neat mechanical glove that added an extra joint to his fingers. His expression was quite alien for me to read, but if I had to guess he wore a look of concentration on his elongated face. Two beady eyes squinted past his triangular horn, wide nostrils flaring with each exhale as he hammered a flat sheet of metal even flatter.

Calling him Rolling Boulder was an apt description in my opinion. Even hunched over the forge he looked tall, and he wore only a loincloth so his bulging muscles were on clear display. He had muscles in places where I was quite sure humans didn’t even have places. His rough gray skin glistened with sweat, and it was only when he paused to wipe his brow that he noticed me.

Then he continued to hammer the metal in his grasp.

Hands in my pockets, I looked for something to lean against while I waited for him to finish. The half-finished worker golem behind me creaked as I leaned against it, earning me a warning look from Barumm. I was on my best behavior after that. I didn’t really mind waiting; I knew firsthand what it felt like to be bothered during the flow of creation.

As I waited, I soon began to envy Barumm’s loincloth; I wasn’t overdressed but the heat of the furnace was getting to me slowly. I wondered whether I could give this place a bit more ventilation. The Dungeon had some form of magical air conditioning, though I believed that Imaya was already pushing its limits. Perhaps Heat runes would have helped here? I wasn’t sure how those worked. Barumm was using a mundane furnace, since Heat Magic was rare in this corner of the Terran Empire—it belonged to a species that humans were currently in war with. I was rich, but not as rich as to get prisoners of war from the other side of the empire just to have a stable source of Heat Magic to control the room temperature and cool my drinks.

“Randel,” Barumm said, “what is it?”

His voice had a rough, gravelly quality to it. He sounded grumpy … but perhaps less grumpy than usual. Noruk people didn’t like to talk much. Actions speak louder and things like that. Body postures were important, though I couldn’t really understand the nuances without drawing on the knowledge of the shades. Barumm stood with his arms crossed across his massive chest, turning his back to the forge.

“Just checking,” I said, making a show of glancing around the smithy before settling my eyes back on him. “Everything going well?”

“Well enough,” Barumm said, shifting his weight subtly. “Two more golems done.”

That sounded nice. We had golems next to almost every well by now, making them pull water from the underground river relentlessly.

“Good,” I said. “Need anything more?”

Barumm shook his head, grunting. I nodded in turn.

“Another request,” I said, then pointed down at my prosthetic leg. “Fill it up?”

It wasn’t Barumm who had crafted my leg, but as a Noruk he was able to recharge the mechanical parts with his essence, which was basically golemancy-mana. For the necromantic side of my leg I would need to find an Avarii, but that part of the construct allegedly didn’t need to be recharged as often.

Barumm beckoned me over to the anvil, gesturing me to put my leg up on it. Once I did, he took off his gloves and pressed his fingers to the metal below my knee. There were no flashy visual effects around my leg, and my collar didn’t track the mana transfer either. Barumm straightened back up a few seconds later, and I had no way to tell whether he had actually done anything.

“Done.”

“Thanks.”

I put my leg down and took a few tentative steps back and forth. It felt the same. I craned my head to look up at Barumm.

“Seen Val lately?”

“Downtown market.”

“Alright,” I said, walking to the exit. “Bye, Barumm.”

The Noruk blacksmith grunted a goodbye to me before lumbering back to his forge. Yeah, he was definitely warming up to me. We had started off on the wrong foot, but I liked to think that by now I had proven myself to him. My association with a Sylven didn’t earn me any favors—and Devi’s attitude hadn’t helped either. Her open-mindedness toward humans didn’t quite extend to the Noruk, and so she had caused quite a scene when we first met the blacksmith.

“We all have room for improvement, don’t we?” I mused out loud.

The streets were getting busier as I walked down to the central area of the Refuge, toward the market. The music I had heard earlier was coming from there. If the lute weren’t enough clue as to who was performing, the rich singing voice certainly was.

“She fled his dream, once there came the morning,
Her scent lingering, bittersweet…”

The market square was full of refugees. It wasn’t crowded, not exactly, but a considerable amount of people had gathered for their free meal. Today it was stew, most likely from rabbit. Food prices had gone up after the sweller invasion, but for now I was content to let these daily warm meals continue. My wallet could take a dent; it was almost disgusting how much money the Inspectors were throwing at me as Player Allowance. Other Players like Devi and Imaya received only a fraction of my income.

I navigated around humans and Thardos alike, searching through the crowd. I would have expected Val to be testing the new golems, but I found him on dinner duty. He was handing bowls of stew to a line of refugees. A large, clawed hand grabbed my shoulder as I tried to cut the line, and I looked up at the Shrissten who had stopped me. Pale yellow scales, brown lizard eyes, two rings as piercings in his nostrils, huge jaws slightly ajar to show off a row of sharp teeth. For a moment I wondered what this guy got out of a small bowl of stew. Perhaps an appetizer for his real meal afterward?

“Hey there, buddy,” a man next to the Shrissten spoke. “You can’t skip ahead, just ‘cause you’re a Reaper. Wait for—uh, are you the—I mean, Mad Painter?”

The Shrissten released my shoulder and jerked his hand back as if I had burned him.

“No, I’m Randel,” I corrected him patiently. “Don’t worry, I’m not here for the food. I just want to talk to Val.”

I was drawing more and more looks from the line of refugees, so I turned quickly and moved on.

I found it fascinating that it was my status as the Mad Painter, rather than the fact that I was a Reaper, which gave people a pause. Reapers were the gods’ executioners. Harbingers of death. Not everyone was religious, however—in fact, there were many who saw that Reapers were just regular people too. People with failings, not some kind of divine beings.

The Mad Painter, on the other hand? He wasn’t just a regular person. Rumors said that he had slaughtered dozens of the Black Moon’s members when they tried to kidnap him, murdering them in cold blood. Which, to be fair, was true. Even if I had been under the influence of a shade at the time. Refugees who recognized me stepped out of my way hastily, fear and respect warring in their gazes. Not everyone was like that though, and it was those exceptions I was truly thankful for.

“Randel!” Val called out, extending a hand to me from behind his cauldron of stew. “What brings you here?”

Val, the former Factory worker was part of the Painters, with my Mark of Replacement – a black, dagger-shaped tattoo – on his bare upper arm. An ironic sight, considering how much he disliked Players in general. We had gotten to know each other by him threatening to beat me up, but after a bit of talk he had come around. The burly man was one of the few people who knew me from before the sweller invasion, and I appreciated that the rumors didn’t scare him away.

“Curiosity and boredom, mostly,” I told Val, shaking his hand. I then stood aside so that he could continue filling the bowls. “I thought I would find you with the new golems. Are they set to work already?”

“Oh yeah,” Val said. “Top-notch work as always—much better than what we had in the Factory! Thank the big guy for me, will ya?”

“Already did,” I said, trying to remember. Had I thanked Barumm? I thought so.

“Now, that’s not to say that we couldn’t use a few more golems, ya know? Plenty of work that ‘round here.”

“I can imagine,” I said. “Who is gonna keep the golems charged, though? We don’t have enough Noruk for that.”

“We’ll figure something out. The sweller farm really needs help. Ain’t nobody wants to spend their time skinning those bugs.”

I hummed thoughtfully, then grabbed the spare ladle and joined Val at the cauldron. Honestly, I wasn’t sure that skinning the Dungeon-spawned swellers was worth the effort. Their hide was somewhat valuable, but it wasn’t exactly a gold mine. Dungeons in this world didn’t contain treasure chests – the rewards for clearing Dungeons usually came from Quests – and so there was little room for exploiting the spawn mechanics.

I served stew beside Val for a while. It felt quite relaxing, if I ignored the occasional nervous refugee who didn’t dare to take the bowl from me. But then there were plenty of brave ones too, like the little girl who asked about Nosy and made me promise to bring him next time. He was a little superstar for the Thardos children.

I left Val before too long, wandering off to find Stanley. The music had stopped by now, so I expected to find him in the company of at least one young woman. Possibly more. That was the way his nights usually went, and so after some asking around I wasn’t surprised to learn that people saw him enter the Steady Stone with someone.

The Steady Stone was a tavern that Imaya and I built with the intention to lease it to someone. We had pulled up the walls and set the lighting, putting a little bit of extra effort into making it look inviting. The project was such a success that we quickly raised a few more establishments across the Refuge. There was no shortage of people willing to try their hands at running a tavern down here, and I could understand why; even among the poor, the taverns had a tendency to become a hub of activity.

I looked over the neatly organized furniture of the Steady Stone, tables and chairs made of suspiciously high-quality wood, many of them already occupied. The walls were decorated with various paintings … and I stopped short when I recognized one of them as mine. What the hell? It depicted a Shrissten man selling street food from a tiny stall. Sloppy, messy colors. The painting was only half finished, since I had misplaced and lost it at one point—though seeing it here, I wasn’t quite sure about that misplaced part anymore. Well, at least someone obviously liked my painting. Shaking my head, I reminded myself what I actually came here for.

Stanley was sitting by the bar on a high stool, talking to a girl in black next to him. The motley garb Stanley wore was in stark contrast to hers. Stanley’s clothes would have looked ridiculous on anyone else, but somehow they fit him. With his styled blonde hair, neatly trimmed goatee, and the lute slung across his back, he looked like a stereotypical fantasy bard. He turned when he noticed my approach, grinning and waving me closer.

“Randel! Fancy seeing you here! You’ve been neglecting my company for far too long.”

I took the seat next to Stanley, with only a passing glance at the girl on his other side.

“Yeah,” I said. “I suppose I did.”

Stanley gestured at the girl. “Randel, let me introduce you to Jessie. Jessie, this is Randel, the—”

“I know who he is,” Jessie cut him off. “We have already met.”

I blinked, only now realizing that Jessie was a Player too. I took note of her dark makeup and at the piercings through her eyebrows and nose and lower lip, but I couldn’t really remember where I had seen her before. She did look familiar, though. The Dungeon during the invasion, we reminded ourselves. The riddle room with Jessie and Tamara. Oh, right.

“I remember,” I said. “You called me a newbie.”

Whatever Jessie was about to say died on her lips, a rather flustered expression taking over.

“I—”

“No, you were right,” I said. “I am a newbie. I barely know what I’m doing. However, you should know that I’m getting better at it—this week I have brought my first Player armor!”

Jessie’s eyes flickered down my shirt for a moment, but my vambraces were hidden beneath my sleeves and she couldn’t see my prosthetic leg from where she sat. She seemed to be vaguely surprised, perhaps even disappointed, though she covered it up quickly.

“Congratulations,” she said in a dry tone, then turned aside. “I’ll … leave you two to catch up with each other. See you guys later.”

I watched her hurry away, heading straight out of the tavern. Stanley huffed next to me.

“Typical,” he said. “They play nice until I get them a drink, then bail on me.”

“Sorry for ruining your date,” I said. “I guess I’m not very good at first impressions.”

Stanley raised an eyebrow at that, regarding me with an amused look.

“Perhaps you’d have more success if you didn’t always belittle yourself during the introduction.”

I matched his raised eyebrow with my own.

“Always belittle? What do you mean, always?”

“Those two or three times when you bother to speak to anyone besides Devi.”

“Ouch,” I said, wincing. “You didn’t have to go that hard with the truth. Couldn’t you just, you know, lie to me?”

Stanley snorted, then took a sip of his drink.

“It’s no big deal,” he said. “It wasn’t really a date. She was snooping around in the Refuge and I decided to learn more about her. She fled when she met you, which I consider as valuable information gathered.”

“So, it was just a nice bonus that she was pretty?”

“Eh? You think she’s pretty?”

“Sure,” I said, shrugging. “The piercings are a bit excessive, but they are tasteful and aesthetically pleasing. They really suit her face. I’d like to see her in something other than those clothes, though.”

“Right?” Stanley asked, brightening up. “I don’t like these goth girl vibes too much so I may be biased—but I do think she went a bit overboard with that outfit. Those rags and chains are not flattering to her body at all!”

“No, no, that’s not it. It’s not the gothic style that bothers me, but the fact that her clothes were ill-fitting. When you’re wearing all black it’s especially important that the different pieces harmonize with each other.”

Stanley looked at me pointedly.

“No offense Randel, but since when have you become such a fashion expert? You’re wearing the same shirt every day!”

“Hey there, that’s not true. I just have many identical ones.” Kinda. I consciously didn’t look at the colorful smudges where I had wiped my hands into my shirt. “Besides, you got to agree that there’s a difference between being too lazy to wear fashionable clothes and looking at pretty girls to judge what they are wearing.”

“Wise words, mate,” Stanley said. “Spoken like a true caveman who never went on a date.”

I grinned. “Okay, alright. Then how about this? I paint pretty girls more often than I paint myself. I know my craft, and women’s fashion is obviously part of it.”

“Spoken like a true artist,” Stanley said with his best wise man imitation. “Good. These words are accepted.”

It was at that point that I finally caught the barmaid’s attention and ordered a beer. She gave me a weird look, though I wasn’t sure whether that was because of my conversation with Stanley or my notoriety as the Mad Painter. I tried not to stare too much, but the bracelets on her wrist transfixed me for a moment. They kept clinking into each other, glittering in the light of the glowing clovers overhead. Her hands were slender, tanned, and shaking a little. I sighed, looking away.

“Sometimes I think your little songs did more harm than good,” I told Stanley. I took the mug of ale from the barmaid, nodding my thanks as she retreated.

“Eh?” Stanley said. “You still blaming me for that song about killing the giant worms? I’ve spoken with Devi since last time, you see. She doesn’t care about you taking the credit.”

“It’s not about that,” I said, then shook my head. “Well, it kinda is. My problem is about what other people take away from that song. Hearing about how I lasered those worms to death doesn’t make them think I’m a hero or savior. They just fear me all the more, believing that I can obliterate buildings with a single brushstroke.”

“Do you want to be a hero or savior instead?”

“Well, no. But it paints me in a dark light.”

“Maybe, or maybe not,” Stanley said with a contemplative look on his face. “I think you inspire just as many people. But hey, that’s just my opinion—I can stop including you in my songs, if you want to.”

I fixed my eyes on my mug of ale, trying to catch my reflection in it. What did I want, really? My first instinct was to complain about how Stanley’s songs made me stand out. But that was kind of their point, wasn’t it? I didn’t want to stand out. I didn’t want to, yet I created a Dungeon right beneath the city and openly claimed to be its Dungeon Master. I chose this, I wanted this.

“My problems aren’t always rational.”

“That, I can understand,” Stanley said. I was expecting him to add something else, perhaps a witty remark, but he remained silent.

“I kind of want to blame you for my dark image,” I said. “I know it’s not fair. I know that rumors of the Mad Painter would have spread anyways. If anything, your songs are a good counterbalance against those. So yeah—thanks, I guess.”

“Woah, a compliment!” Stanley said. “Thank you, mate. I aim to please!”

I took another sip to hide my smile. That was the thing about Stanley; he embraced his choice of art completely. He defined himself as a bard, and he was clearly enjoying his unique role. Did I enjoy painting? I supposed I did. But while I used it as a place to retreat to, Stanley let his art define every aspect of his life, let it define the very way he lived. That was a huge difference between us.

“You know,” I cautiously said, “I find it strange that you’ve stayed in this city for so long. I figured you’re more of a wandering bard type, going from one place to another, gathering stories.”

“Oh please,” Stanley said, resting an elbow on the bartop. “You think finding a good story requires wandering around?”

“It doesn’t?”

“Not if you have already arrived. At that point, all you need is a pair of good eyes and plenty of patience.”

“Huh. So you stayed here instead of, let’s say, joining Teva’ryn on his adventure … because you think that with patience you’ll see interesting events around me?”

I avoided looking directly at Stanley, but even so I could tell that his amused smile was back.

“I stayed,” he said, “because unlike that Teva’ryn guy you’re my friend, Randel. I stayed because you’re going to need help with the Refuge and I’m willing to lend a hand. And lastly—yes, I do expect great stories to revolve around you. I’m patiently waiting for them. Did that disperse your doubts?”

“Yeah,” I said. I struggled to hide my relief. Ugh. It felt so awful to feel relieved by a small thing like this. Stanley sighed beside me, then pulled down the last of his drink.

“Mate, you seriously need something to cheer you up. This Dungeon management business is sucking the life out of you.”

“No, it’s not that,” I said. “Actually, it’s those awful rhymes of yours. Deep inside I die a little every time you crack one.”

Stanley gasped. “Randel, you lie! I haven’t cracked a single rhyme, for the whole time we’ve had this sublime talk.”

I did my obligatory groan.

“Come on,” Stanley said, turning on his seat. “Do you think Devi would be jealous if the two of us spent the night up in the city? Have a boys’ night out, visit a few clubs or something, relax a bit.”

“Visiting clubs is definitely not relaxing for me,” I said. “But … sure, it’s not a bad idea. As for Devi, well, I’ve never actually seen her jealous. My, ahem, soul mate places way too much trust in me. And stop smiling so stupidly Stanley, you’re embarrassing me.”

“I’m not smiling, you’re smiling.”

I rolled my eyes, then took one last sip from my beer. “Let’s go.”

Stanley hopped off the stool, his feet never touching the ground as he began to float.

“Who are you and what did you do to Randel?” he asked. “I thought you’d need more convincing to go out.”

I stood up and headed for the tavern’s exit.

“You clearly haven’t seen me in my late teens,” I told Stanley. “I wasn’t exactly a party animal, but I would have definitely become a pothead if not for Sarah’s efforts. It got me into—”

I stopped short as the tavern’s door swung open in front of me and a group of soldiers marched inside. City Watch, wearing their gray and green uniform with batons and swords at their hip and decay rifles slung across their back. They blocked the way out.

“Hello?” I greeted them. Most of them were looking directly at me, standing stiffly without saying anything—waiting while the conversation in the tavern gradually died down. Once they had everyone’s attention an officer stepped forward, held up a parchment, and began to read.

“By the orders of Governor Clavius,” he called out to the silent room, “the City Watch is looking for the Reaper called Randel, the Mad Painter. He—”

“Dude, I’m standing right here,” I said. “No need to shout. Welcome. I’ve been expecting you.”

The officer looked up from the parchment as if noticing me for the first time.

“Are you the Mad Painter? Dungeon Master of the Dungeon beneath Fortram?”

“No, I’m Randel,” I said, sighing. “Founder of Randel’s Refuge.”

“Very well, then,” the officer said, lowering his parchment. “You’re under arrest, Mad Painter.”

Well, I supposed that was one way to spend a night out with the boys.