Chapter 001: New City, New Me
[As time passes, memories fade. And sometimes feelings change. It's not about who you were, it's about who you'll become. This story is far from over.]
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{LUCIAN GILFORD}
I woke to sunlight. Not the thin, fluorescent kind that used to seep past my apartment blinds, but the real thing—warm and steady and unreasonably bright, as if the sun had decided I'd had enough rest for one lifetime. I blinked against it and rolled onto my side, feeling grass instead of carpet, soil instead of mattress. The smell hit me first—wildflowers, damp earth, and a faint metallic tang that didn't belong anywhere near my old world's air. For one disorienting moment, I wondered if the paramedics had dragged me to a park after scraping what was left of me off the pavement.
Then the pain failed to appear, and the grass under my palms felt too soft to be real.
I sat up slowly, heart thudding, and stared at a landscape that made no sense. Hills in the distance, a forest beyond them, and a walled city that looked like something an architect would design after binge-watching medieval dramas. High towers, stone gates, banners rippling in the wind. No cars, no power lines, no sounds of civilization beyond birdsong and the faint hum of insects.
I checked my wrist instinctively for my watch—gone. My other hand found my phone, still in my jeans pocket, and my wallet and keys right where they belonged. My brain caught up a second later, reminding me I'd died, which made keeping any of this deeply unfair to the laws of physics.
The phone lit up the moment I pressed the button. Battery: 100%. Time: 09:06. Network: No Service. At least that much made sense.
The lock screen was the same picture as before—me standing beside my old car, wearing a stupid grin I no longer deserved. The clock hadn't changed. No messages. No missed calls. I swiped right anyway, half expecting the screen to freeze or vanish, but it responded as if nothing had happened. All my apps sat in their usual places: the games I'd downloaded and never finished, the folder labeled Bills I'll Never Pay, the Costco app sitting smugly in the top row like it knew something I didn't.
I laughed—quietly at first, then louder when it sank in. Death hadn't erased my debts, but apparently, it had given me unlimited battery life. A cosmic joke, neat and tidy.
My wallet still held the same cracked plastic cards, a handful of cash that would probably be worth less than toilet paper here, and my driver's license with my own face staring back like an accusation. My keys jangled uselessly when I turned them in my hand. Apartment, car, mailbox. None of which existed anymore.
I glanced back toward the city, the walls distant but unmistakable. Smoke curled lazily from the rooftops, and the faint echo of bells carried through the breeze. Whoever lived there probably didn't take credit cards, and I doubted they'd exchange their currency—whatever it was—for USD.
So: I had a phone that worked without power, a wallet full of dead currency, a pocket of keys to doors that no longer existed, and a city straight out of a Renaissance fair sitting a few miles away. Not the worst reincarnation, all things considered.
The ground beneath me was soft and uneven. Poppies grew wild around my boots, red petals shifting in the wind. I took a breath and stood, stretching legs that felt intact if not exactly alive. My heart still beat, my lungs still worked, and my phone still insisted it was a little past nine in the morning. The afterlife, apparently, had cell service standards to maintain.
I opened the camera app on a whim. The lens focused perfectly. The photo I took showed the same rolling fields, the same walls in the distance, and me looking slightly more confused than I felt. Proof, at least, that I wasn't a ghost.
"Right," I muttered, sliding the phone back into my pocket. "New world, same stupidity."
The wind smelled like a meadow trying too hard to impress spring, all grass and sweetness and the faint odor of manure pretending to be rustic charm. Somewhere in the distance a bell rang, sharp and uneven, which I decided to take as the local version of a notification ping. My stomach growled back at it—hungry, bored, and annoyed, much like me.
I brushed dirt from my jeans and immediately regretted the motion when my hand came away streaked green. Grass stains. Fantastic. Reincarnation hadn't even lasted an hour and I was already ruining my pants. If there was cosmic symbolism in that, I didn't want to know.
The city—if that's what it was—looked a few miles off. Close enough to walk, far enough to regret it halfway through. The road cutting through the hills was nothing but packed soil and stones, winding between hedges that looked suspiciously sharp. I could already feel the blisters forming just from looking at it.
I checked my phone again, mostly out of habit. Still 09:06. Still no service. The GPS map showed a blue dot floating in what appeared to be an ocean of beige nothingness. If I zoomed out far enough, I half-expected to see the words Here Be Dragons. I didn't, but it felt implied.
The photo gallery still worked, which meant I could technically spend the rest of eternity scrolling through vacation pictures from a life that no longer existed. I gave it fifteen seconds before deciding that was a terrible idea. Nostalgia and existential crisis were a bad breakfast combo.
Pocketing the phone, I patted down my wallet and keys like they might suddenly sprout advice. "So," I said aloud, because talking to myself was already on the day's agenda, "either I find civilization, or I die again. Maybe third time's the charm."
The grass whispered around my ankles as I started down the slope toward the road. Birds scattered from the movement, which felt like overkill considering I was hardly sprinting. I waved an apologetic hand anyway—habit, I guess. I'd spent years in traffic thanking drivers who couldn't see me; apologizing to wildlife was a natural escalation.
By the time I reached the road, the sun had shifted higher, turning the air from pleasant to mildly sweaty. I loosened my collar, realized I wasn't wearing one, then decided the hoodie counted. The breeze carried another round of that not-quite-bread, not-quite-smoke scent. Civilization, or someone's breakfast. Either way, progress.
A single rutted cart track ran toward the city. I considered the odds of a passing wagon giving me a lift, then remembered every fantasy story where hitchhiking led to kidnapping, bandits, or worse—companionship. I'd take the walk.
The phone vibrated suddenly in my pocket, nearly stopping my heart. I yanked it out, hopeful for half a second before the screen informed me that an app required an update.
"Yeah, good luck with that," I muttered, hitting Later like it mattered.
I tucked it away again, shoved my hands into my pockets, and followed the road toward the strange skyline. Birds trilled, the grass swayed, and somewhere out there, an entirely new world waited for me to embarrass myself in.
The walk took longer than I liked. The road kept curving away from the city, as if whoever built it had a personal vendetta against straight lines. Stones pressed through the soles of my shoes, and I tried not to think about the word blisters the same way one avoids thinking about spiders—if I didn't acknowledge it, maybe it wouldn't happen. The wind picked up in bursts, carrying that not-quite-bread scent again, mixed with something smoky and faintly spiced. Civilization, or maybe someone's attempt at burning civilization.
The closer I got, the clearer the walls became—massive gray stone, rough but steady, with banners fluttering from tall posts like they were auditioning for a medieval tourism brochure. A gatehouse jutted outward, wide enough for two wagons to pass, and a few silhouettes moved along the top, too distant to make out faces but close enough that I could tell they weren't packing AK-47s. Improvement.
I checked my phone again out of habit, the way one might check a compass or a lucky charm. Still no service, still 09:06. Apparently time had entered an indefinite strike. I flicked through a few screens—music app, photos, even the notes section—and found everything preserved exactly as I'd left it, which felt both comforting and deeply creepy.
The fields on either side of the road began to shift from wild grass to furrowed farmland. Someone had been plowing recently; dark soil and faint tracks cut through the terrain. A few scarecrows stood crooked in the distance, wearing clothes that looked like they'd been stitched together from nightmares and old curtains. I waved to one of them. It didn't wave back, which I decided was encouraging.
A wagon rattled past me heading away from the walls, pulled by two stocky creatures that resembled oxen if oxen had decided to hit the gym. The driver, an older man with a beard that could've hidden small wildlife, gave me a curious look. I gave him the universal sign of "Hello, I'm lost and not a threat"—a half wave and a confused smile. He nodded once and kept going. Good enough.
When the gate finally loomed over me, I realized how massive it truly was. The wooden doors stood easily four stories high, banded with iron, and the stonework looked like it had survived a few centuries of bad weather and worse decisions. Two guards stood nearby, dressed in armor that gleamed under the sun, though it was clearly more for show than combat. Neither spoke as I approached; one just glanced down the road, the other squinted at me like I might spontaneously start juggling.
And that's when my phone chimed.
The sound was so out of place it froze me mid-step—the clear, crisp ping of a notification cutting through the murmur of wind and distant chatter. The guards twitched, one hand drifting toward his weapon, and I immediately held my hands up in the universal gesture of "Please don't stab me, I'm just cursed with technology."
I fished the phone out, and sure enough, the screen glowed with a banner:
Map Update Complete.
New Region: Orario (Central). Offline mode enabled.
I blinked. Once. Twice. Then, because I apparently hadn't learned my lesson about making things worse, I tapped the notification. The screen shifted to a satellite view—not Earth's kind of satellite, unless NASA had suddenly decided to go medieval chic.
The city appeared in remarkable detail: concentric rings of streets, a massive central tower that pierced the sky, and countless little icons hovering everywhere like confetti. Zooming in, I saw names in English—Market Street, South Gate Exchange, Guild Plaza, Hostess of Fertility Tavern—each tagged with what looked like a GPS pin. Tiny colored dots moved slowly through the streets, labeled "Population Flow."
My eyebrows decided to perform a duet of disbelief. "Oh sure," I muttered under my breath, "no Wi-Fi, no data, but we've got satellite coverage from the afterlife."
One of the guards shifted, eyeing the glowing screen as though it might bite him. "Magic tool?" he asked in an accent that sounded like someone reading English through a translation spell.
"Something like that," I said, still staring at the map. The interface pulsed once, the words Welcome to Orario appearing briefly before fading away.
Orario. So that was the name. The map expanded when I pinched the screen, showing roads leading outward, small villages labeled in faint gray, even the forest I'd woken in that morning. The app scrolled smoothly, icons loading with absurd efficiency. Either the universe was playing favorites, or Costco had one hell of a coverage plan.
I zoomed in again, half expecting to find myself represented by the usual little blue dot. I wasn't disappointed. There I was, standing like an idiot thirty meters outside the main gate. The dot blinked patiently, as if to say yes, genius, that's you.
"Right," I said softly, lowering the phone. "Because what every lost soul needs after death is GPS navigation."
The guards exchanged a look I couldn't read, one muttering something about "foreign adventurers." I decided not to ask. There was a gate, a city, and apparently, according to my map, a tavern with the word Fertility in it. Priorities practically arranged themselves.
I slipped the phone back into my pocket, still half expecting it to vanish or explode or start giving me turn-by-turn directions. Instead, it just sat there, inert and smug.
I took one more look at the looming gates of Orario—high, ancient, and very likely full of people who would find me deeply confusing—and exhaled through my nose. "All right," I told no one in particular. "Let's go find out how bad this gets."
The gate guards didn't stop me, which was either mercy or poor judgment. I slipped past them and straight into what felt like a riot designed by a florist. The air hit me first—thick with the smell of roasted meat, spilled ale, and flowers that probably had fancy names but all screamed spring. Streamers ran from building to building like colorful tripwires, and petals fell from somewhere above, probably because someone thought dumping a cartload on the crowd counted as celebration.
The street pressed in on both sides. Stalls overflowed with bread loaves, fruit piled into precarious towers, and skewers sizzling over open fires. A man in a feathered hat shouted about miracle charms while another demonstrated knives sharp enough to slice through coins, which seemed like an excellent way to ruin currency. Kids darted between legs with armfuls of confetti, and a woman in a blue cloak laughed as a handful hit my hoodie. I'd been in the city for less than a minute and already looked like part of a parade float.
I dug out my phone just to give my hands something to do. The screen adjusted brightness on its own, the map centering automatically on my location. The little blue dot blinked in time with my heartbeat—unhelpful but weirdly personal. According to the screen, the Guild was near the city's center, along a wide avenue lined with icons labeled shops, taverns, and adventurer supply depots. The app had even drawn a neat dotted path for me, like I was a tourist on the world's least relaxing vacation.
I followed the arrow, weaving through the crowd. People gave me curious looks but no one stopped me. That was good; explaining "earthly traveler with a smartphone" wasn't on my bucket list. A group of musicians played somewhere ahead, drums and flutes blending into something cheerful enough to make me suspicious. Happiness this loud had to cost extra.
The cobblestones changed color as I walked—paler near the outer streets, darker toward the heart of the city. The phone chirped whenever I passed a marked location, which meant it beeped roughly every thirty seconds. Market Street, Babel Tower Plaza, South Bazaar, all rendered in crisp text that somehow scrolled beneath the icons. It even listed the distance: fifty meters, thirty-five, twenty. If it started offering rewards points, I was uninstalling it.
I passed a stand selling fried dough that smelled better than any moral principle I'd ever held. The vendor waved a piece at me, shouting something in a language I half understood. I smiled awkwardly, pointed to my pocket as if that explained everything, and kept walking. The man laughed and went back to selling to a pair of armored adventurers who looked like they'd never met a calorie they didn't like.
At a crossroads, the map rotated on its own, aligning perfectly with the street layout. The phone buzzed once and displayed a small arrow accompanied by text: Proceed 400 meters north. Guild Reception ahead on right. I didn't even have data on Earth that worked this well.
I muttered a thanks to whatever eldritch customer-service entity managed this app and kept moving. The noise grew louder as the buildings closed in—tall stone facades with banners fluttering from windows, merchants shouting prices that climbed faster than the crowd could protest. Somewhere overhead, bells rang again, layered and offbeat, like the city itself was too drunk to keep rhythm.
The dotted line on my screen shifted slightly as I moved into a broader square. The crowd thickened—dancers, street performers, maybe priests, all swirling in a mass of color and sound. I sidestepped a juggler who nearly clipped my head with a flaming torch and offered him a polite nod that said please stop existing in my immediate vicinity. The man grinned, tossed the torch higher, and went right back to trying to ignite himself.
My feet kept to the glowing route, which now wound between fountains and vendor carts, through the chaos of the festival like some benevolent GPS deity was carving a path just for me. The phone pinged again: Approaching destination. I looked up, blinking against the sunlight that reflected off a wide marble facade.
The crowd shifted, and the words carved into the stone arch came into view—elegant letters, old language, but close enough to English that even my addled brain translated them easily. The Guild. The heart of the city, apparently, and the only place likely to know what to do with a confused idiot carrying a smartphone.
The music, the shouting, the heat of so many bodies pressed close—all blurred into a single rush of noise as I stepped onto the broad stairs leading upward. The phone vibrated one more time and flashed a small pop-up: Welcome to Orario Guild Headquarters. Member Services Available.
The air inside the Guild was cooler and smelled faintly of parchment and ink, which was the first reassuring thing to happen to me since I'd woken up. My shoes clicked against polished stone, and the echo told me the hall was bigger than it looked from outside—vaulted ceilings, banners stitched with runes I couldn't read, desks lined in neat rows, and enough clerks to run a small government.
A few people stood in line, all wearing the same general uniform of danger: armor, cloaks, weapons that probably weren't decorative. I joined the queue, trying to look like I knew what I was doing. My phone map told me I was in the right place—Orario Guild Headquarters—though it also insisted my "ETA: 0 minutes," which felt like the universe mocking me.
When it was my turn, the clerk looked up from her papers and smiled with professional cheer. She said something that sounded like "Good morning, Adventurer. How may I assist you?" but only about seventy-five percent of it made sense to me. The rest might have been greetings or subtle death threats; hard to tell.
"Hi," I said, testing my luck. "I, uh, need information. First-time registration, maybe? I don't actually know what this place is."
Her smile tightened, the way a customer service worker's does when they realize the idiot at the counter isn't kidding. "Registration… for Familia?" she asked slowly, accent curling around the words.
"I'm sorry, I only got the 'registration' part. Familia as in… family? Or cult? Please say family."
She blinked, clearly filing me under idiot tourist, and gestured to a form. I recognized numbers, maybe dates, and a few words I half-understood—name, occupation, divine sponsor. My personal favorite was a line labeled Level: which I could only assume referred to either adventuring experience or how many times you'd respawned.
"I don't have a god," I said, because it seemed relevant. "Or a Familia. Or, uh, anything useful."
Her eyebrows drew together in a look that transcended language: pity flavored with confusion. She turned to the clerk beside her, muttered something that sounded like "foreign traveler again," then leaned back toward me. "You… no deity? No registration? You come… from outside Orario?"
"Outside everything, really." I pointed vaguely toward the wall. "Way outside."
That earned a polite, nervous laugh. She pulled another sheet from under the counter, this one mostly blank except for a few boxes labeled Name, Origin, and Purpose. I could at least fill those out.
"Lucian Gilford," I said aloud as I wrote, hoping my handwriting looked exotic enough to be mistaken for a foreign script. "Origin: uh, very far north." I hesitated at Purpose and finally wrote survival, which felt honest.
The clerk scanned the paper, nodded uncertainly, and called for someone. A man in more formal clothes appeared from a side hallway—older, graying at the temples, carrying a tablet of some sort. He spoke quickly, his words rolling together in a rhythm I couldn't quite follow, though the tone suggested authority.
"I caught maybe half of that," I said. "Do you have a slower mode?"
He frowned, then switched to what sounded like the city's trade tongue—closer to the words I recognized. "You… new arrival?"
"That's one way to put it. I woke up in a field this morning, so either that's your immigration process or I took a wrong turn somewhere cosmic."
He didn't laugh, which was disappointing. Instead, he gestured toward a nearby table and motioned for me to sit. "We… help new. Many come. You learn soon."
That was both comforting and alarming. I sat, the chair creaking under me, and tried to look less like someone who'd died recently. My phone buzzed once in my pocket, and when I checked it, the screen showed a faint blue line tracing my path through the Guild's interior, as if mapping every step. The older man noticed the light and tilted his head.
"Magic tool?"
"Sort of," I said. "Extremely limited magic. Runs on spite and nostalgia."
He didn't seem to catch the sarcasm, just nodded thoughtfully and returned to flipping through a small stack of papers. The sound of quills scratching, armor clinking, and the hum of conversation filled the hall. Every so often, someone shouted a number or name, and a new adventurer stepped forward to claim a badge or argue about fees.
When the man finally looked up again, he gestured for me to follow. "You come. We make record."
I pocketed the phone, which still glowed faintly against the fabric, and stood. "Sure. Let's make a record. That's what got me killed last time."
He led me deeper into the Guild, the murmur of voices rising and falling like waves. I tried to focus on the bits of language I understood—names of gods, talk of dungeons, mentions of levels and monster quotas—but most of it blurred together into a single, bewildering hum. My brain felt like it was buffering.
The man stopped before a small counter, turned, and said something that included the words basic registration and no deity, which I decided to take as progress. I smiled, nodded, and tried not to look as lost as I felt while the Guild around me continued its organized chaos.