Val, and six other burly labourers, roared with effort as they lifted the last enormous wooden pilon upright. What used to take a dozen men now took only half the amount of hands, all pulling on ropes run through rough-hewn interlocked pulleys, one of the many modern conveniences that Val had brought to the comparatively primitive worksite in the ten months since the Gashapon festival had summoned him to this new world.

The pilon slid into place and immediately another group of workers started shovelling crushed rocks and sand into the hole, locking it in place. Val took the cloth from around his shoulders and wiped the dust and sweat from his brow. He looked around at the bustling construction site, the dozens of workers running to and fro putting the finishing touches on the framework for another terrace house tacked onto the end of one of the ever expanding rows of the city.

“Reckon we’ll be wrapped up by end of day,” came a gruff voice from behind him.

Val turned, and tilted his head down, to face Gibbons, the short, squat site foreman. His thick, red hair, what was left of it at least, was pulled into a tight braid at the back of his shining bald head, and his crossed forearms apparently carried all of the hair his head had lost. The man, like the rest of the workers, wore a rough brown vest over a homespun cloth shirt, but his was conspicuously clear of dust and debris, at least in contrast to the other men on site.

“The team put in good work,” Val said, “they picked up the new tools even quicker than I expected.”

“Sure, sure,” Gibbons chuckled, “But two months ahead of schedule? Looks like I made the right call when I made you assistant foreman.”

Val nodded, turning back to watch the workers pouring water from clay jugs into the hole around the wooden pole. The clean edges were a sight cleaner than the rougher hewn wooden struts in the property beside it, and, with the shaping of the joint on the top of it, and a single one of the precisely shaped wooden dowels piled high next to it would lock the attached frames in place securely with minimal labour. Eighth grade woodshop fundamentals to Val that were almost revolutionary in this strange, fantastical world.

“Val,” Gibbons said, quietly enough that the other workers on the site wouldn’t hear him.

“Hmm?” Val questioned, as he looked back at him over his shoulder, seeing a conspiratorial look on Gibbons' florid face.

“Come see me at the office once you’re all wrapped up here.”

On that, Gibbons turned on his heel and strode off the site. Val watched him walk away, down the street, moving between the passing crowds of brightly clad cityfolk. He wondered idly what Gibbons wanted, but that was a mystery for later.

“Alright!” Val bellowed, turning back to the bustling site, “Three hours ‘til sundown boys! Let’s finish strong!”

—

Hours later, Val walked down a crystal-lit street rows over from the now silent worksite. It had seemed prudent to find time to throw a clean shirt on after sending the construction team home. He’d had to work hard to reject the team’s insistent requests to join them at the closest tavern to celebrate the completion of the primary build and the imminent arrival of the painters and finishers who’d put the finishing touches in place over the coming week, but hearing he’d been invited to the construction union’s offices had proved an acceptable excuse.

The signal crystals glowed brightly around the massive castle on the hill high above, and the banners carrying the sigil of the royal family, a silver shield with five swords crossing it, waved in the breeze from the high parapets. The castle was visible from nearly everywhere in the city, and though he’d never had reason to visit it, he found himself looking at it often.

He thought back to the first time he’d seen it, on the day he was brought into this world. The festival had continued long into the night once the summoning was complete, and he, and the others, had listened to the long revelry through the windows of the beautifully appointed, Third Century guild hall high above the crystal plaza. 

Felize, the tall priestess-type in shimmering crimson robes who had welcomed into the world, had introduced herself as the guild-meister of the Third Century and the group were presented to the leaders and sub-leaders of the other guilds. Val discovered he and the others had been magically brought to this world as part of a ritual, used to supplement the warrior class that filled out the membership of the guilds. She answered the first question on everybody’s mind before they had a chance to ask, apparently the trip was exclusively one way.

Some of the others were soldiers, or martial artists, but by and large they were normal, non-combat citizens who the ritual had assigned combat specialties that aligned with more holistic values they had demonstrated during their uniformly tragically short lives. In the brief time he had to chat with the others, it seemed they had all met sudden and tragic ends, lives cut short before their time by illness, accident or, like Val, a mid-range compact SUV. 

At that point, Val realised that he was not dreaming, not indulging in an extended fantasy as his brain bled on itself on the street outside a convenience store blocks from his home. He held onto that hope, but no amount of pinching or toe-stubbing would shake him from a blessed comatose state in a hospital bed. This was not his time, not even his world, and somewhere out there in another universe, his daughter Theodora was alone, wrapped in a blanket on the side of the road while what was left of Val was stretchered into the back of an ambulance.

Each of the others seemed to have similar realisations, and the mood in the room grew dark as each of the summoned sat in silent contemplation of those they’d left behind. Val, in his own grief, did not look around, nor compare himself to the others. He couldn’t bring himself to weep, the shock of his sudden end was one thing, tempered by the bittersweet knowledge that he’d died saving his daughter’s life. But to know, now, that he was alive again, but unable to see her, speak to her, or make sure she was okay was too much to bear.

The guild draft flew by quickly, with each of the guilds snapping up the various fighters, barbarians, mages and machinists in the room. Small chips of yellow crystal attached to leather thongs, one of which Val still wore around his neck, were handed out and allowed each of the summonees to pull up their statistical and class information, projected in the air. The leaders argued the value of the various statistical spreads and classes voraciously, but the only topic that seemed to generate genuine ire was that of Val’s own class.

“Daddy”.

Apparently, this was unheard of. His statistical numbers were abysmal, to quote Chie, the pixie-like guild-ward of the Black Horn; but, beyond that a “Daddy” had never once been summoned in the thousand year history of the festival and nobody knew what one was, or what to do with one. By the end of the night, when the chosen summoned had left with their new guilds to carouse and drown their mortal sorrows long into the morning, another first had occurred. 

Val was left undrafted. Not selected by any of the guilds, handed a set of roughspun linen clothing, leather boots and a small pouch of coins with an apologetic tone and loosed into the kingdom without a goal, a guide, or, since he apparently had no purpose here, any idea if there was any way to get back to his own world, and his daughter.

For an hour, he sat on a set of steps not far from the crystal plaza in a haze. Occasionally a loud noise or cry of revelry would shake him from his stupor and he would watch people go by, swilling wine and spirits from vessels of clay, crystal and gold. Fireworks were launched into the air from some pocket of celebration in the city, bright coloured sparks that fell slowly to the ground. 

Val thought of the summer nights spent sitting by the edge of the river, with Theodora on his lap, watching the fireworks burst in the sky above. He had thought then that she might cry or fuss at the noise or the smell of burning sulphur, but she watched enraptured, without a single tear. She was fearless.

He looked down at the gathered crowds, who’d stopped to take in the bright lights, and found his resolve. There was no time to sit here, aimless and afraid. He was alive, against all odds and reason, and that meant that he could find his way home. Val shot to his feet. Someone in this world could tell him how to get home, he just had to find them, no matter how long it took.