After four hours, a very concerned Aren arrived at the Broken Blade Tavern, owned by a legendary hero — or so the denizen claimed himself to be — by the name of Jari. Jari, apparently, loved telling stories of his exploits; slaying dragons, banishing liches, defending the city walls from hordes of goblinoids in the Fourth Darkling Crusade. Indeed, Jari was sometimes in multiple places simultaneously! Once he defended the Elven Queen from the Warlock Arlash’s hordes of demons, while at the same time, driving a blade through Arlash’s twisted, black heart in the Warlock’s Tower, several hundred miles away from the Elven Spires of Fyar where the Queen was.

Truly, Jari was a man of many talents. According to him.

The group stopped listening to another one of Jari’s stories when they saw Aren and his concerned expression. He was actually trying to hide it, as he knew it’d bring up questions, and though he thought he did so successfully, the result was far from what he expected.

Aren had many hours to think about everything that had happened during his “sleep”, but no conclusion came of it. Firstly, the premonition concerned him.

Aren was inexperienced, but he was no fool. Some might think that premonition was a superpower, and they would rightly think so — even Aren felt an ember of excitement in his gut when he thought about it — but all power comes with a cost. What was it Voyrin said? If he met with the AGMI, it could kill him, or take over his mind?

No, Aren was no fool. That premonition, in Aren’s version of events, was an ultimatum. In Aren’s version of events, Leviathan demonstrated his power — premonition and the death line in the real world — but the result was very clear. Aren was shot dead.

Follow my instructions, came with the unspoken and you will live. But what would happen if Aren disobeyed? Idly, Aren swiped his hand over his chest, where those three bullets robbed him off his life in an alternate version of events. That’s what would happen.

To begin with, Aren didn’t have a reason to trust Leviathan. What could an AGMI possibly want from him, a sixteen-year-old class P honorary citizen — Aren hadn’t earned his citizenship yet, after all, he was just born to citizens.

But at the same time, Aren had no reason not to trust Leviathan. Leviathan had done nothing so far but help Aren, without asking for anything in return. And there was the problem. No power is free.

Leviathan — a military AGMI — was no creature of sentiment, emotion or pointless endeavors. It was arguably a creature, but one Humanity could not even come close to comprehending. Not asking for anything in return simply meant that Leviathan had not revealed its objective to Aren. Yet. At least, that is the conclusion Aren came to.

So what was Leviathan’s goal? Clearly, it required Aren to be alive; The premonition proved that. It needed Aren to trust it; its interference in Aren’s interaction with his new friends and the ominous words I will help you were sufficient evidence for that. The question then remained: Did it require Aren to be successful in Singularity, or was teaching Aren how to wield the powers of his class a part of earning his trust?

“Is anybody in there?” Nissa was the one Aren felt the closest friendship with. Her caring and upbeat nature stood out among the others who were cold, silent or crude to the point of rudeness. If anything, in this group, Nissa was the one who didn’t fit, but somehow, she kept all of them together. Now she waved a hand in front of Aren’s eyes, perhaps seriously concerned about his well-being. “Maybe he is AFK,” she continued, tapping her head. “In there.”

“I am here,” Aren said. “Wait, aren’t you supposed not to say those terms?”

“Here’s fine. It’s a safe point,” Nissa chirped happily. “And when we are alone. Just not out there, or around denizens outside of safe points. You can even call us by our real names.”

Fang grunted and then rubbed his shoulder, cracking his neck. The others were similarly preoccupied with other things. Cassandra was reading a book — perhaps a magic tome — and Damien was staring out of the window and into the streets outside, perhaps expecting trouble.

“What got you all twisted up?” Nissa asked, lowering her head to peer into Aren’s downcast eyes.

“Ah, nothing really,” Aren said. “Just some bad news, is all.”

“Don’t you dare kick the bucket yet,” Fang said, producing a cloth-wrapped package. “We found you a shadowblade.”

“Wasn’t cheap either,” Cassandra grumbled and even Damien showed emotion — disgust.

“Best one we could find. We even petitioned the crafter for further… experiments,” Nissa said, beaming broadly.

Fang all but shoved the package into Aren’s hands and nodded for him to open it. He did. Carefully pulling on the string, arcane magical lights poured out of the mahogany box — no doubt a trick to inspire wonder at opening a present.

Opening the box, Aren saw a sheath and a blade within the contents, surrounded by a black sponge-like material. The hilt was wrapped in cloth and a gold dragon was embellished into the design, drawn with golden thread.

Holding it like a sacred object, Aren carefully observed the sheath which was made of blackened leather and sewed with red, luminous thread. He immediately understood that the sheath was special because of the arcane glow of the thread, but for what purpose he had no clue.

The others smiled, even Damien was interested in the meticulous way Aren received his gift — although, the others perceived it more as an investment.

Finally, the time came and Aren grabbed the hilt, and with a rasp, drew the blade.

Then he understood why Spellblades needed a shadowblade.

With a mere thought, Aren’s buffer opened. First he became aware of it, which he couldn’t do before, but then he opened and closed it at will — which he could only do with great difficulty before. Not only did he have command of his buffer, but he also became aware of macros and aliases. He could… perceive them; Feel them. They did not exist in any sense, perhaps not even in an informational sense. They simply… were for the lack of a better word. It was like muscle memory. Aren was suddenly reminded of how he learned the Right Hand Rule of Electromagnetism, and macros and aliases were like that. A short-hand, of sorts.

As his mind passed over the dubious and illusionary form of these macros, the blade lit up with white runes. The blade itself was black, but every corner and edge was a deep crimson, similar to the sheath’s glowing thread, but made of metal.

“Whoa, don’t go messing with the macros in here. If you accidentally blow someone up, it’s gonna be trouble. The Coalition doesn’t forgive easily,” Nissa warned him.

But Aren couldn’t resist. His mind touched the intellectual construct that was a macro and to Aren it seemed like it was a knot of glimmering rainbow threads, and when his mind touched them, the knot unravelled and spilled out countless magical formulas and calculations.

Stunned, Aren wondered if those formulas and calculations were what went into his buffer, and intuitively, he knew they did. He was so foolish to think that he could have done any of these things without macros. Aliases were no different, but less potent than macros. They appeared similarly to Aren’s inner perception, but they contained no formulas or calculations, but rather, finished calculations. Variables and magic numbers. Like c in the real world, or pi.

It all made sense to Aren, and it excited him to no end. He was no stranger to academics and learning; when he was twelve, he could solve difficult quadratic equations and even dreamed of, one day, solving mathematical problems. Not that there were many left to solve.

The blade itself unveiled its secret to Aren’s mind as he held it. Knowledge and understanding drifted on the outskirts of his thoughts, made understandable by the interface:

[Black Shadowblade: Made of a black metal and reinforced by arcane alloys, this blade captures the enigma and mystery of the first Shadowblades. Crafted by: Moira Silverleaf.]

It was short and simple, but Aren understood intuitively that his knowledge of the blade was limited by his lack of understanding. If he learned Metallurgy, or Arcane Metallurgy, he would probably learn the names of the alloys, and perhaps more information on the blade, possibly including its lore and history.

Suddenly, Aren heard a roar and he was, against his will, forced to interrupt his inner vision and melding with the shadowblade. After all, everything he perceived took place in the shadowblade’s own sub-buffer.

“Aren, my boy, why didn’t you say you came to visit me?” Jari shouted at the top of his lungs, making sure all the patrons — including other players — heard him say my boy. The man, a tall monster of a man, with wide, square shoulders and bulky arms and legs lined with complex layered muscles came to a stand next to Aren, and squeezed the boy’s shoulder.

Not knowing what to say or do, Aren thought he’d play along with the script. After all, he never spoke to Jari before. Not once. “Ah, I did not wish to trouble you, Mister Winterfur—”

“Call me Uncle Jari, my boy. No need to be so familiar with family,” Jari cut Aren off. Nissa’s eyes glimmered with amusement. Fang, understandably, was casting glances all around himself, trying to gauge the reaction of other players. Some of them studied scrolls, others stared into crystal amulets, most didn’t seem to care. But even Aren understood that they were wondering who he was and how he managed to raise his reputation with Jari so high.

“What can I bring you? Any friend of Aren is not only my friend, but my nephew. Go on. Are you hungry? Thirsty? Do you want to try mead? It’s good. I promise.”

All questions were answered with a simultaneous shake of the head, or a profound no, especially at the mention of alcohol. Denizens weren’t even supposed to serve it to those who were under seventeen, and yet Jari was practically trying to give it to them no matter what.

“Uncle Jari, if I may,” Fang said, lifting his index finger. “Could you pass on a message to someone, if they show up here?”

“Of course, Fang,” Jari said, clapping his hands together. “For whom, and what is the message?”

“She’s an elf, by the name of Moira Silverleaf,” Fang said. “The message is…”

Jari waited for a few moments and then bellowed. “Well, go on!”

Fang glanced around himself, and then stood up, climbing on the tips of his toes, to whisper a short phrase to the Tavern Owner.

Jari nodded. “Consider it done.”

“Thank you,” Fang said and remained standing. “If you’ll excuse us, we’d love to stay longer, but we have work to do.” Fang nodded to the others.

They all stood up from the table as Jari bellowed out another laugh. “Of course, of course. You are adventurers. You have monsters to slay. Ha! When I was your age, all monsters around here knew the bite of my steel’s edge! I wish you luck young ones, and come visit your Uncle Jari from time to time!”

His voice faded in the distance as the group hurriedly left the Tavern.

On the way through the city, which led them past the still active Bazaar, the group restocked on equipment. Arrows for Nissa, throwing knives for Damien and some dried meat field rations. Fang even stopped by the local armorer and produced two pieces of leather armor from his satchel — no doubt acquired from the orcs — but the armorer was not interested in them. The pieces could not physically fit into the satchel, and yet they returned into it without so much as creating a wrinkle on the outside. Aren heard of such enchanted, bottomless bags, and was glad, and unsurprised, that Fang was this serious about earning his living in the real world in this virtual world.

An enchanted bag was nothing to scoff at. It was a relatively large investment — comparable to a shadowblade — but they came with various player-defined grades. The world, and the interface, made no distinction between items or their power and usefulness. A Bottomless Bag of Holding could have the volume of ten cubic meters, or ten thousand, but on the outside, and just looking at it, there would be no difference between them. One had to sing their lores, identify them somehow, or experiment to find out. Then, Appraisers would determine the category of the item. A whole Guild existed to support the practice of categorizing items, and according to rumors, their business was extremely lucrative. There were, of course, exceptions. World-renowned items, weapons of legend, and such, would have a category assigned by the world — a very special one.

Aren learned all of this on their walk through the Bazaar, where Aren saw all sorts of items, some uncategorized, some with an assigned quality. Adventurers generally bought the appraised items — no one wanted to risk buying something that could be amazing or garbage — and therein was the power of the Appraisers guild. Denizens, on the other hand, purchased anything. To them, an assigned category meant nothing. The ranking system was something else.

Grade 3 Sky Realm Twin Daggers. Grade 1 Earth Realm Wooden Club. Grade 4 Mid Realm Steel Leaf Arrows. There were no such names like Rare or Epic; discussion of levels was also strictly prohibited. The Appraisers resorted to a different grading system based on Grades and Realms. It was simple to understand and get used to, as long as one remembered the two rules: The lower the grade, the better the item, and the higher the realm, the better the item. Grades progressed from six to one, and Realms from Earth to Heaven, following the progression Earth, Mid, Sky, Azure, Heaven. Why Azure? Because we can, was the Appraiser’s answer to that. And they really could.

“You are not gonna disappear on us again?” Fang asked on the way towards the city gates.

“He didn’t mean it like that, Aren,” Nissa said. “We are just concerned about you, is all.”

Aren smiled. “I am sorry I bailed on you. It’s just, I have… tests and such to do? You know, because of the accident. So sometimes they pull me out of Immer—” Aren cut himself off before he could finish the word, well aware of the potential punishment for disobeying one of the most basic rules of Singularity.

Nissa nodded in understanding. “I get you, and we understand. Your health is the most important thing, after all.”

Fang nodded, agreeing. “That, and also, we have a long day ahead of us. Maybe two days. We are officially beginning our operation of reclaiming the Ruins of Rakab.”

“What about the clan? Weren’t we going to do that first?” Aren asked. Nissa was also curious about the answer.

“You saw what happened in the Tavern,” Fang said. “We cannot draw unnecessary attention. What do you think would happen if you walked into the Adventurer’s guild?”

Aren could already imagine the scene of all the employees screaming like rabid fangirls and throwing themselves at the group, asking for autographs or whatever famous adventurers get treated like in Singularity. He saw the problem Fang was pointing out.

“Our only option is to not return empty-handed,” Fang explained. “Do you understand what I am saying?”

Aren nodded. “Build up our reputation first. Then the clan.”

Fang nodded. “That’s right. It’s a bit roundabout, but we have no choice.”

Cassandra chuckled. “Nothin’ wrong with roundabout. The scenic route is always more excitin’.”

Damien silently nodded.

Soon they passed through the gates and their first official adventure was now truly underway.