He found the citizens of the city-state of Al’Lachia, a place he was not surprised to have never heard of, to be enormously free with their words on the night of the festival. He picked a bustling tavern at random, and plied the chattiest of the townspeople with drink from the modest purse he had been gifted, taking advantage of the celebratory mood of the populace to learn all he could from the common folk. 

Al'Lachia was built above, and around the entrance of, the thousand floor labyrinth, an enormous series of dungeons and caves that existed long before the city. Every day, members of the various guilds would enter through the giant pit in the crystal plaza, seeking treasure, resources and glory. For their heroics, and facilitation of the various economies that the city exploited from the resources in the labyrinth, the guilds and their members were lauded as heroes by the populace.

To date, the deepest the guilds have ever managed to travel through the labyrinth was level seven-hundred and forty-nine, but that was during what was known as the second platinum age, almost four hundred years prior. The modern guilds tend to float between level fifty, considered to be the cap for even the most capable solo adventurer, and two-hundred.

The city itself was ruled by a royal family, descendants of the city’s founder, a warrior woman known as the Boltblade Queen, the most capable of the first adventurers to descend into the labyrinth. When her husband was killed in battle, she returned to the surface and never entered the dungeon again, giving birth to five children, triplet brothers and two girls, powerful warriors in their own right, who spread the royal line.

Directly below the royal family and the current queen, Celia, and wielding much political capital, stood the five major guilds and over thirty minor guilds that formed the gilt council, the leaders of which Val had met earlier that evening, and had been found wanting.

Before long, Val found what he was looking for. In the back of a smoky courtyard, a heavily scarred, grizzled woman with shoulders like a linebacker waved the stump of her left arm in Val’s face and told him what awaited the adventurers on the deepest floor of the labyrinth, at least according to legend. 

When the abyss had opened, so it was told, a giant being of the purest light had climbed forth from the depths, tearing the hole that was now the entrance to the labyrinth. Seeing the nomads who had settled briefly in the verdant valley that was now Al’Lachia, apparently surprised by the presence of such tiny, frail creatures, he told them that a grand treasure awaited any warrior brave enough to descend into the depths that he had just climbed from.

On the thousandth floor, beyond a frozen lake that seems to go on forever, there was, to be found, a simple urn. Within the urn, the being told them, was imprisoned the twin flame of its own essence, a being of such great power that, as the charge for its freedom, could grant any wish. A being of such overwhelming power that it could wield control over space and time itself, but that would be held fully in thrall by any who could claim the urn that bound its cosmic power.

The wine on the woman’s breath gave Val no small pause in considering her tale, but he figured it would be easy enough to see how widespread the legend was. In this world of magic, he was sure that there was more than one potential way to tear open an interdimensional gateway back to reality, but it was the best lead he had for now. In the millennia since the abyss opened, thousands of warriors had entered the abyss and never returned, or returned in pieces, but the danger of his quest was the least of his considerations.

The more immediate concern was that without a guildmark, a kingdom-issued coin of opal and steel, a deliberately limited resource that the monarchy issued to the guilds, and the guilds issued to their members, he would not be able to enter the labyrinth at all. He was unconcerned, at first, by the lack of interest on the part of the major guilds, but unless he could convince one of the guilds to take him on as an adventurer, he would have no chance of reaching any level of the labyrinth, let alone the depths no other adventurer had ever reached.

The following days were a parade of cruelty and disappointment, as he found that the smaller guilds were just as confused and disinterested in fronting the guild fees for a “Daddy” as the major guilds were. One of the guilds at least provided him with an education on how critical the numerical values on his stat sheet were, by placing him in a friendly sparring match with one of their more junior fighters. Val towered over the teenage warrior, stripped to the waist, and discovered that the size of his muscles and the breadth of his build were not factored into the combat mechanics of this world. 

As one of the white mages of the guild placed a glowing palm on the split in his forehead, he looked at the stats of the warrior who’d felled him, and had to reassess his place in the pecking order after being tossed across the training grounds.

With no chance of joining a guild, and no one capable of dispelling the mystery of his unique class, Val went with what seemed like his only option. He joined one of the many builder’s crews that worked across the ever-expanding city. He hid his status as a summoned, and found that his prodigious strength still worked when it came to physical labour, and his knowledge of contemporary building techniques quickly made him an asset in high demand.

And so, with his first major job as an assistant foreman complete well ahead of schedule, the months spent labouring in the mud, and sleeping in the most modestly priced room above the least rat-infested tavern he could find, had brought him here.

He rapped on the front door of the construction union, noting the crystal-lights still burning inside, and waited. Gibbons opened the door, smiling broadly, and ushered him inside.

Val took a seat across the broad desk from Gibbons and watched as he rifled around in the floor safe, listening to the clunk of heavy gold coins. Eventually, Gibbons sat up and placed a swollen pouch on the desk between them. Somehow, Gibbons' smile got even wider, revealing two gold molars which glinted in the light of the lanterns.

“The union leaders are very, very pleased with the work you’ve been doing,” Gibbons told Val, his hand still on the fat pouch.

Val was sure that the mysterious heads of the construction union, a group of fifteen merchant leaders that he had never met, or even seen, had never heard his name. Gibbons wasn’t a bad boss, not by a mile, but Val had always assumed he wasn’t the type to share credit unless he was forced to.

“How pleased?” came Val’s reply.

Gibbons chuckled and slid the bag across the desk.

“About twice as pleased as I had first thought they might be,” Gibbons said matter-of-factly, “Certainly more pleased than I’ve seen them with any single site build before.”

Val regarded the coin purse with raised eyebrows. This was unexpected.

“Well then,” Val reached for the bag and lifted it, surprised by the weight, “Please pass along my thanks.”

He tucked the heavy bag into the pouch on his belt, and secured the tie carefully. Gibbons watched him closely, and his smile faded somewhat.

“What?” Val asked.

Gibbons looked into Val’s face, his face inscrutable, not saying anything for a moment. Just as Val was about to question him again, he pulled open one of his drawers and placed a silver jug and two beaten metal cups on the table.

“Let’s have a drink,” he offered.

Val shifted in his chair.

“Sorry, boss,” Val replied, “I’ve got to -”

“One drink,” Gibbons interrupted, already pouring potent smelling spiced honey wine into the cups. He slid one of the cups over to Val and picked up his own, then waited.

Val sighed inwardly, collected his own cup and raised it to meet Gibbons’.

“I want you to stay on,” Gibbons started, and the cups paused just short of meeting.

“Gibbons…” Val replied.

“Not as assistant foreman,” Gibbons continued, “The Swallowtails are expanding their guild hall and barracks, it’s a massive build and we want you to run it.”

Val was struck momentarily dumb. Not by the offer, which wouldn’t have been enough to entice him even if it was to rebuild the entire royal palace from the foundations; but by the earnest look on Gibbons face. 

Gibbons saw through the shocked, somewhat apologetic expression on Val’s face before he had the chance to respond.

“Didn’t think so,” he muttered, before draining his cup and banging it down on the table, “But I told the powers that be I’d at least ask.”

Val shook his head and drained his own cup, then dropped it next to Gibbons’.

“Not sure what you’re planning, Val, seeing as you’ve been pretty tight lipped about it,” Gibbons spoke to the cups as he poured another, larger serving for each of them, “But once you’re done, you’d be welcome back.”

Val took the cup and nodded, then banged it against Gibbons’ and drained it.

“Don’t think it’ll come up,” Val said, surprised by his own emotional response, “But thanks.”

Gibbons finished his drink.

“Go on then,” he muttered.

—

Val walked with purpose, despite the four cups of high-proof honey wine coursing through his system, down a quiet street in the armoury district. The forges had been quenched for the evening, though the entire neighbourhood still smelled of coal smoke and hot metal.

He stopped outside a dark building, and ducked down a side passageway, following the sound of rhythmic hammering. Coming out of the passage in a small courtyard at the back of the smith, he found old Casey working the rings of a piece of mail together atop a small anvil with an even smaller ball hammer.

Casey’s thick, fire-scarred fingers moved nimbly, rotating the small silver rings this way and that, and Val watched silently, appreciating the craft on display from the silver-bearded smith. 

“Orright, Val?” came the gruff voice of the craftsman, without looking up from his work.

“Yeah,” Val replied, “I’m alright.”

Val walked up to the wide table that held Casey’s chisels, hammers and other miscellany, and dropped the heavy coin purse among the tools of his trade. That was enough to draw Casey’s eyes away from his delicate work.

“All there?” he enquired.

“And then some,” Val agreed.

“Good enough,” Casey hawked and spat, placing his hammer down on the anvil, “If you’ve got the coins, I’ve got the good sense not to go askin’ any questions what might put them at risk.”

“Appreciate it.”

—

It was well past midnight, and the rough-stone plaza around the entrance to the labyrinth was quiet and still. Two figures in the heavy, silver filigree armour of the royal guardsman stood at the entrance, talking quietly and occasionally yawning.

Concealed in the shadows, Val pulled his heavy pack up on his shoulders. The armour he now wore was near an exact opposite to the flamboyant sets that the guards wore, with each  expertly hammered metal plate coated in a thick black resin that dulled its reflectiveness. There were no plumes of dyed horse hair or fur accents to catch the eye. The entire set, from the shoulder plates down to the shin guards, was built for maximum protection and flexibility, forged from an eye-wateringly expensive mixed metal, only obtainable a hundred and twenty floors into the labyrinth, that was light enough to run in, but strong enough to turn away axe or blade.

The pack clinked and rattled as Val shuffled sideways, full to the brim with food, supplies and an entire guild’s worth of health and stamina potions in stoppered crystal flasks. A mere three hours earlier, he had been as flush with coin as any member of the lower nobility in the city, no small feat for a site labourer, but now he didn’t have a copper piece to his name.

But he had what he needed.

In four minutes, the guards would leave their post at the top of the labyrinth entrance, and return to the barracks nearby. Around fifteen minutes later, a new set of guards would take their place and stand atop the stone staircase, watching the gates, until dawn broke over the city.

Made sense that they had grown complacent. The guilds had more marks for admission than they could realistically use, and the common folk feared the beasts and monsters that roamed the labyrinth, even only on the first floor. Their understandable lack of vigilance came from only ever having to stop drunks and louts from falling into the abyss while trying to piss down it.

Val rested his hand on the head of one of the six hammers hooked to his belt. Each was forged from the same material as his armour, though lacking the black resin coating, and each of the hafts was inscribed with runic markings and shimmering gem chips that imbued them with elemental and status magic he could have never wielded on his own.

He had what he needed.

And as soon as the guards made their nightly retreat, he was going into the labyrinth and not stopping until he hit the bottom, and returned to his world, and his daughter.