“You have to get back…!” Female Bishop’s voice comes at almost the same moment you bring up your sword. You heard it, you’re almost sure: a mocking voice forming the words of a spell.

“Ventus…lumen…libero! Wind and light, release!”

You don’t have time for a single passing thought. You don’t sense pain or agony so much as simply emptiness. Sound disappears; the world around you vanishes. You don’t know whether you are standing or sitting.

In reality, you’ve simply been knocked on your side. You open your mouth, but the groan that comes out along with your exhalation of breath means nothing to anyone. Only one thing is sure—the weight of your katana in your hand. You lean on it as you rise unsteadily to your feet, wavering like a ghost.

The presence— There.

Your companions lie fallen in this chamber. Female Warrior in a heap like a rag doll, Half-Elf Scout utterly motionless. Myrmidon Monk is slumped against one wall, your cousin kneeling beside him. Female Bishop lies prone on the ground—and then your eyes meet her sightless gaze.

“…I…an…till…fight…,” she manages, her voice shaking, as she uses the sword and scales to stand, looking like she might collapse again at any moment. You feel the way she looks. Your chest armor hangs off you; you undo the ties and throw it away.

“A shame, a great shame. But I’m afraid your adventure ends here.” The red blade is in front of you. The bastard is laughing. That armor won’t do you any good now.

At last, you hold your sword straight and true before you, though it might be meaningless. The red blade is the symbol of death. You and your cousin, all your companions, are going to die.

There will be no exceptions. Not one.

For no one can escape the Death.

Very well.

Does it mean anything meeting your end with your sword at the ready?

“…!”

Someone is calling you in a voice like a scream. You hear the rattle of the gods’ dice rolling.

And then, before you can answer, the red blade comes running, and blood sprays.

Step 2

Wire-Frame Proving Grounds

There’s a girl of scant happiness.

Such is your first impression upon seeing her. The first thought you have upon opening the door of the famous Golden Knight, for she is the first thing you see.

Some adventurers fresh from the dungeon, their loot sitting before them, discuss the day’s take:

“Eh, it’s decent.”

“C’mon, it’s two hundred and fifty gold pieces. Not bad for a day’s work, I’d say.”

You can hear metal clinking against metal, some of it from coin, some from armor and weaponry. The footsteps of waiters and waitresses. The smell of food and wine. It all merges together into a wave of sensation that breaks upon you and then recedes, as if the dim tavern were an ocean unto itself.

The girl you spotted is in one corner, sitting with her shoulders hunched as if to make herself smaller. Even in the faint light and at this distance, you can see immediately that she has golden hair. She’s small in stature. By her clothing, you would guess a cleric of some description. She looks to you like a woman who would drown in the tavern’s sea of sound, sinking deeper and deeper until she disappeared completely.

You look at her, your vision obscured by your conical reed hat. She seems out of place among the rough-and-tumble types who populate the tavern—but indeed she, too, is an adventurer.

Without really thinking about it, you press the blade at your hip farther into its scabbard, making sure it’s still ready.

An adventurer.

That’s what you came to this fortress city to become.

And now you are one.

There’s a dwarf warrior, looking bored with a huge ax slung across his back. The lord of somewhere or other, complete with squire, is also lounging in shining armor. The one studying a scroll, struggling to memorize the words of a spell, must be an elf wizard. You even spot a rhea scout swipe some food off a table.

And on that same tabletop is a mountain of treasure the likes of which you’ve never seen.

So this is the fortress city.

“Hey, don’t stare too hard. You want them to think you’re a tourist?” a reproving voice says from somewhere just below your shoulder. “You’ve wanted to be an adventurer forever—don’t screw it up by getting careless.”

It’s your cousin. She clutches the short wizard’s staff she carries just in front of her bountiful chest. Despite her chiding tone, she’s looking around with considerable interest herself.

Going off to hone your skills with a girl in tow—it’s an embarrassment. That’s how you feel anyway…

“Gosh, you’d never survive without your big sister around, would you?” she says, even though she’s hardly older than you are, and even though you both left your home in the countryside for this city at the same time.

You sigh and shake your head. At least you have one companion you can count on. That’s your half-elf scout, who’s currently snickering to himself like you’d expect from a rhea. You jab his leather-covered shoulder with your elbow, and he responds, “Oops,” his accent noticeable even in that single syllable. “Hey, Captain, don’t get too worked up, eh? Just sit down and get a mug of ale—that’s the first order of business.”

“My, drinking at noon, are we?”

“Heh-heh! Listen, Sis, that’s what adventurers do!”

Confronted by your cousin, you can only sigh. Are you sure at least one of them isn’t a rhea?

“Well, elves and rheas are practically kin! Since I’m a half-elf, I guess that makes me a cousin.”

“Oh, just like him and me!”

You consider pointing out that as long as she’s keeping track, you’re second cousins. Instead, you just sigh again.

Nonetheless, you agree with Half-Elf Scout. Your throat is parched. You’ve been walking around outside, and it’s hot. You long for an ale. You nod at him, spot a convenient round table, and sit down on one of the barrels surrounding it. A waitress notices you immediately and comes rushing over, and you order three ales.

“Oh, if you have any water with fruit squeezed into it, I’ll take that instead…,” your cousin says.

You glance in your cousin’s direction as you revise the order: two ales and a fruit water.

The waitress responds with a smile and bustles off to the kitchen. A doglike tail peeks out from under her skirt.

“Padfoot, huh?” Half-Elf Scout says. “Makes sense. The pay’s good here.”

Padfoots, with their occasional animallike features, often find it difficult to make a living wage in civilized society. Just a glance at her makes it clear how much money there is in this tavern and in this city.

All because of an underground labyrinth—the Dungeon of the Dead. Endless loot and riches bubbled up from it, along with endless monsters. The rumors—and the king’s proclamation—were true, it seems. You nod again, adjusting the sword at your hip.

Shortly thereafter, the waitress reappears with three mugs, placing them on the table. You drink noisily. The ale is delicious.

“By the way,” your cousin says, smiling brightly, “what’s that girl doing?”

Argh.

Your cousin is pointing at the young woman you were looking at earlier.

“Hrm?” asks Half-Elf Scout, the one your cousin was consulting. He raises an eyebrow, then quickly says, “Ahhh. She’s doing identification.”

“Identification?”

“Stuff doesn’t come out of that dungeon with a convenient little tag attached, right? You gotta ask somebody what it is. Otherwise no one’ll buy it from you.” Half-Elf Scout sips his drink.

When you ask if identification couldn’t be done at a shop, he replies, “Yeah, but it’ll cost ya. If a poor little wizard goes down in the dungeon all by their lonesome, they’re almost guaranteed to die, even if they do everything right.”

“And that’s about the worst thing that could happen to you…”

“Sis, there’s no end of bad things that could happen to you…”

You could turn into a zombie or monster food. Or worse fates that he hesitated to speak of.

You nod sagely as Half-Elf Scout trails off.

But if she can identify items, that means…

“So she serves the Supreme God, who sees the truth of all things,” your cousin says. “And she’s a bishop at that.”

A bishop ranks at the top among clerics; it’s a title one cannot claim without considerable intellectual prowess. It’s always possible she’s running a simple swindle, but she doesn’t look like the type to you. Which would make her, you would think, in great demand…

“But if so, then she could have her pick of companions…,” your cousin continues. You suggest that perhaps she’s waiting for someone, but your cousin doesn’t listen. You sigh.

As much as you’re loathe to admit it in front of your cousin, spell casters possess crucial abilities. You know a few supernatural tricks of your own, but a warrior is no wizard. That girl at the table is in a position to pick and choose whom she adventures with—or at least, she should be.

“Good point,” Half-Elf Scout says with a nod. “Gotta make sure it’s someone you can trust.”

He’s right, you think. Adventurer has such a heroic ring, but in reality, many of them are broke, mendicant good-for-nothings. Especially now, with the dungeon to contend with, you hear that the standards of adventuring organizations have slipped. After all, even some of the most malnourished fighters can go down in the depths and, as you can see, come up with enough to fill their bellies and then some. All you need is a modicum of skill. That’s adventurers today.

You like to think you are different from run of the mill troublemakers, but objectively speaking, there’s little to distinguish you. You’ll just have to let your actions do the talking…

“So let’s take stock. I’m a scout, but I can handle the front row when I need to. Cap’s a warrior, and, Sis, you’re a spell caster…” Half-Elf Scout looks critically into his mostly empty mug as he speaks. “Usually, parties are four to six people—maybe another couple of casters would be nice.”

“Wow, you really know your stuff!” your cousin says, her eyes sparkling. “Wait… Have you been down in the dungeon before…?!”

“Wh-who, me? Nah, nah, this is just, y’know, stuff I’ve heard from people… Ha, ha-ha.” The scout chuckles half-heartedly and looks away. This is something about your cousin that you have unalloyed respect for.

“I’ve got an idea,” she says, clapping her hands. “If she doesn’t have a party and we need a spell caster, how about we ask that girl to join us?”

This is something about your second cousin that you are trying to have unalloyed respect for.

You’re just starting to think seriously about the idea when:

“Yo, identifier!”

“You finish that stuff we asked you about yesterday?”