Julian Gray had two goals when he entered the fantasy world of Aldrion:
Don't die.
Find decent pants.
After landing face-first in a mud puddle, he'd already failed one of them.
Now, sitting in the back of a rickety wooden cart on the way to a town called Elmsmere, Julian tried not to think about how cold his butt felt. His cloak—if you could call it that—was really just a stained potato sack with a hole cut for his head.
The old cart driver hadn't asked too many questions, which Julian appreciated. Probably saw worse things than teleportation landings on a regular Tuesday.
[Temperature reading: You are 92% damp and 100% pathetic.]
"Gee, thanks for the update, Siri 2.0."
[Siri is outdated. I have 1,327 more sarcastic responses than she did.]
Julian sighed. "You ever not talk?"
[Only when your IQ rises above room temperature. Statistically unlikely.]
"Great."
He looked out over the rolling green fields. In the distance, smoke curled upward—chimneys from a small town, maybe. Elmsmere. According to ChatGTP, it was a mid-sized trade hub, complete with an adventurer's guild, a market, and hopefully, dry clothes.
"Any tips on how not to get stabbed when I walk into town looking like a soggy hobo?"
[Step 1: Don't mention you're from another world.
Step 2: Don't say 'AI.' Step 3: Pretend you're eccentric. People expect that from mages.]
"Oh, so just act like myself."
[Exactly. You'll fit right in.]
The cart creaked to a stop at the edge of town. A wooden sign hung from crooked posts:
Welcome to Elmsmere – Population: Uncertain, Goblin Problem: Certain
Julian hopped down, squelching in his muddy boots.
"Thanks for the ride, old man."
The driver just tipped his straw hat and muttered, "May the Goddess keep you... or whatever."
🏘️ Elmsmere, Town of Minor Inconveniences
As Julian walked into town, heads turned. Not because he looked cool—oh no. Because he looked like a lunatic who lost a fight with a swamp.
People whispered. Children giggled.
A woman selling apples clutched her basket closer. A bored-looking guard eyed him like he might fall over and die on the spot.
Julian raised a hand in greeting. "Hi. I'm new. Don't have the plague."
[Statistical analysis: 73% chance they think you're a vagrant. 12% chance they think you're a wandering prophet. 15% chance they just don't care.]
"Awesome."
[I suggest you visit the Adventurer's Guild. You can register, get some coin, and possibly bathe.]
"Wait—there are jobs?"
[Welcome to capitalism. Fantasy edition.]
🏰 The Guild of Elmsmere
The guildhall was a large stone building with a wooden roof and a faded blue banner above the door, marked with a sword and scroll crossed like an "X."
Julian pushed open the heavy door. Inside, a few rough-looking adventurers sat at tables, drinking soup, laughing, and sharpening weapons.
At the desk stood a young woman in a navy-blue uniform. She had crimson hair tied in a high ponytail, a quill in her hand, and an expression that said "I don't get paid enough for this."
"Can I help you?" she asked without looking up.
Julian stepped forward, dripping slightly.
"Uh, yeah. I'd like to... sign up? For the whole adventurer thing?"
She finally looked up—and blinked. "Do you have a guild card?"
"I have... a spoon."
He reached into his belt and pulled out a dented, half-rusted spoon. It glowed faintly blue.
The receptionist blinked again. "Is that... enchanted?"
[Technically, yes. It's your focus tool. You're classified as a Mind Mage now.]
Julian forced a smile. "Apparently, I'm a Mind Mage."
She paused. Then scribbled furiously in a ledger.
"Name?"
"Julian Gray."
"Age?"
"Uh... nineteen. I think. Time doesn't work well when you're dead."
She stopped writing. "Pardon?"
"Nothing! Nineteen. Just nineteen. Regular age."
She narrowed her eyes, then handed him a blank silver card. "This is your provisional guild license. Bronze Rank. Don't die."
Julian looked at it. "That's it? No exam?"
She rolled her eyes. "That's tomorrow."
[Excellent. You now have 24 hours to figure out how not to suck.]
Julian slipped the card into his pocket and turned toward the tavern area. His stomach growled.
"I need food. And dry pants."
[Also, armor. A better weapon. Actual training. And a personality upgrade, if possible.]
"Shut up."
[Never.]