The rhythmic clicking of mechanical keys was the only sound in the room, save for the hum of the cooling fan in Jake Thompson's laptop. On his screen, the soot-stained streets of Tarant glowed with a dim, Victorian amber.
Jake leaned back, rubbing his eyes. He was deep into a "pure technologist" run. "Just one more level," he muttered. "One more point into Gunsmithy and I can finally craft the Looking Glass Rifle."
Then, the world groaned.
It wasn't a sound, but a vibration that started in his teeth. Before Jake could even stand, a violent, tectonic heave threw him and his laptop to the floor. The ceiling disintegrated. The roar of shifting plates drowned out his yell as the second floor collapsed, burying his bedroom under a tomb of drywall and brick. Darkness followed instantly as the weight of the world pressed down.
System Initializing...Entity: Jake ThompsonStatus: Terminal Damage Averted via Dimensional Displacement.Arcanum Interface Version 1.0.4 Loaded.
Jake gasped, his eyes snapping open. He expected to inhale dust; instead, he tasted the sharp, cool scent of pine. He wasn't under a house. He was lying on a bed of vibrant green moss in a forest so massive it felt primordial.
Beside him sat a heavy, reinforced leather suitcase.
"What... where am I?" he croaked. He pushed himself up, feeling a strange thrumming in his mind.
Suddenly, a translucent window flickered into existence. It was the familiar parchment-styled UI of Arcanum: Of Steamworks and Magick Obscura, but it was empty, waiting for his input.
[PATH SELECTION REQUIRED]Available Archetypes:
Magickal Path: Bend the laws of reality through Chaos
Technological Path: Harness the laws of physics and engineering. Inventions will operate with 100% stability in the hands of a Technologist.
Jake stared at the screen. He knew this world felt "magical," but his heart belonged to the steam and the gear. He reached out and mentally slammed his choice into the Technological Path.
[PATH CONFIRMED: TECHNOLOGIST]Notice: Your inventions will operate with 100% stability. No failure rate detected.
A low, guttural growl vibrated from the shadows. A creature that looked like a rotting, bipedal corpse—a Ghoul—lurched from the ferns.
Jake panicked. He had no weapons. He looked around wildly—there was no iron rod, no sword, only the ancient, thick branches of the trees and stones. He grabbed a heavy, jagged rock from the forest floor.
The Ghoul lunged. Because he was now a "Technologist," the System flooded his brain not with power, but with leverage and anatomy. He didn't just swing; he saw the weak point in the creature's skull. He sidestepped the filth-covered claws and brought the stone down with a sickening crack against the monster's temple.
The creature collapsed, twitching. Jake stood shaking, his hands raw and covered in black ichor.
He turned to the suitcase. He popped the latches, and his breath hitched. Inside lay row upon row of shimmering, stamped Gold Bars.
He had no tools. He had no forge. He had no food. He was a boy with a suitcase of gold in a world that wanted to eat him. He looked at his shaking hands and realized the "System" wouldn't build things for him. He would have to find a way to buy tools and do the work himself.
Jake sets out into the unclaimed North. He spots the distant, elegant spires of an elven settlement.
The weight of the suitcase was a brutal reality. In a video game, fifty gold bars were just a number in an inventory slot; in the Unclaimed North, they were nearly eighty pounds of dead, dragging weight. Jake's muscles screamed as he hauled the leather case through the dense undergrowth, his modern sneakers slipping on damp roots and ancient mulch.
He hiked for hours, his gaze darting between the System Map flickering in his vision and the towering trees. Finally, the forest opened up into a valley that looked like a painting. This was no human village of mud and thatch. The buildings were spiraling towers of white stone and living wood, woven together as if the trees themselves had volunteered to become homes.
This was a settlement of the Aen Seidhe.
As Jake stepped into a clearing, the forest seemed to come alive. Three elves stepped from the shadows. They were tall, ethereal, and carried bows that looked like extensions of their own limbs. The lead elf, his hair the color of autumn leaves, leveled an arrow at Jake's throat.
"Dh'oine," the elf hissed, his voice cold and melodic. "You are far from your filth-ridden cities. Why do you bring your stench to our soil?"
Jake's heart hammered against his ribs. He slowly lowered the heavy suitcase, his arms trembling from the effort. He didn't reach for a weapon—he didn't have one. Instead, he knelt and popped the brass latches.
The sunlight hit the gold. The archers visibly recoiled. Even for a race that lived for centuries, row upon row of pure, refined, stamped gold bars was a shock.
"I'm not a scout," Jake said, his voice raspy. "I'm an inventor. I want to trade these for... whatever you spend here. Coins. Money. I need to buy steel and tools."
The elves exchanged confused glances. "Coins?" the leader asked, his bow dipping slightly. "You carry a kingdom's ransom and you do not even know the names of the Orens or Crowns you seek?"
Jake blinked. Orens? Crowns? The names meant nothing to him, but the tone told him he was in a primitive economy. "I don't care what they're called. I need to buy a forge. I need an anvil. I need a hammer."
The leader, stepped forward. His suspicion was warring with a newfound curiosity. This human was a bizarre contradiction—clothed in strange, soft fabrics, carrying incredible wealth, yet ignorant of the most basic truths of the land.
"You wish to trade the metal of kings for the scrap of blacksmiths?" the elf asked. "Very well. Enter. We shall see if the Dwarven and Gnomish smiths in our valley have enough coin to satisfy your peculiar madness."