Having a foot in both worlds, so to speak, was wearing Alex down. His mind was dead-tired, sluggish after a day of pushing himself to the limit. His body, though, ached for movement. Sleep was becoming harder to come by with each passing day, the divide between mental exhaustion and physical restlessness pulling him further out of balance.

  All that said, one would expect Alex to take advantage of his early evening off, maybe spend some time at the Happy Motel and burn off some of that pent-up energy. A few laps around the courtyard or a quick workout might have done the trick. Still, something was nagging at him about the whole spellcasting thing, a weight he couldn’t ignore. He needed to get it off his chest, no matter how much he tried to push it aside – and he knew just the right person for that.

  “Hey there, Mort,” Hunter said. He’d just materialized in his Shard. He’d missed the old-timey speakeasy ambience, he realized. It felt like a home away from home – certainly more so than his room in the Happy Motel.

  “Good evening, sir,” the bartender said. “I trust you’ve been doing well?”

  “Well enough,” Hunter gave a weak shrug as he climbed on one of the barstools. “You know how it is.”

  “That I do, sir. Drink?”

  “Manhattan. Thanks, Mort.”

  “You’re very welcome, sir.”

  Hunter watched as the bartender set to work, his movements fluid and precise, almost unnaturally graceful. In less than a minute, the drink was ready. The bartender carefully placed the glass in front of him, the amber liquid perfectly balanced, garnished with a cherry that seemed placed with purpose.

  “Your Manhattan, sir,” Mortimer said with a polite nod. “Now, what else might I help you with?”

  “Am I that predictable?” Hunter offered a half-hearted smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I hate to be that guy. You know, the one who only shows up when something’s wrong.”

  “It is the nature of this place, sir. Your Shard is introspection given form. It is only natural to turn inward when things are amiss. Only a few feel the need to do so when all is well.”

  That was a bit too philosophical for Hunter to parse. Right now, he was just glad to have someone to talk to, someone to help him untangle the thoughts and worries swirling in his head.

  “Do you know what’s eating at me, Mort?” he said in an admittedly ham-fisted attempt to segue into the discussion he’d come here to have.

  “I do, sir. But it would be better if we pretended I don't. Putting the issue into words should help you grasp it more clearly.”

  “Right,” Hunter said. He took a sip of liquid courage. Mort’s drinks didn’t get him drunk, not really, but they were a comfort nonetheless. “Where should I start?”

  He took another sip of the amber liquid and tried to put his thoughts in order. It was silly, really – and that was partly the reason it bugged him.

  “So, there’s this Ability,” Hunter began, hesitating for a moment before continuing. “Eldritch Power. It lets you cast magical attacks. Sounds pretty dope, right?”

  “I guess so, sir. It would be a good fit with many peoples’ idea of what a power fantasy should be.”

  “Exactly. Most people would jump at the opportunity. I mean, it’s literally for blasting enemies with magic. From a distance. It was one of the first I could learn, but for some reason, I never actually did. I’m not even sure why. Shouldn’t that have been my logical first pick, considering I wanted to stay the hell away from getting hurt?”

  “It is true that a ranged attack option might have proven useful in many of the situations you’ve found yourself in, sir.” Mort said, solemn. He’d slipped into therapist mode.

  “And yet, it didn’t even cross my mind to pick Eldritch Power. I dismissed it completely. I mean, I’m not even sure why I picked a Mystic Class in the first place. It just isn’t… well, it’s not me.”

  That was true. He’d never have picked Mystic, hadn’t Faux-Grimm goaded him. Frontline bruisers were what he felt more comfortable with. Left alone, he’d probably have opted for something like Warrior and called it a day.

  Even after picking Mystic, his Ability choices had been markedly mundane. Sure, he’d picked things like Conjure Familiar and Craft Spirit Charm, but those were utility-focused – practical and grounded in their own way. Somehow, they didn’t feel as out of place for him as something like flinging fireballs left and right.

  So far, he’d told himself he skipped Eldritch Power in favor of more utilitarian options because of his limited supply of Inspiration points. In retrospect, that was a paper-thin excuse. Why had he picked Craft Spirit Charm over Eldritch Power, for example? What was the reasoning behind that?

  Fuck if he knew.

  He’d finally caved and learned Eldritch Power, though, once again, only after more goading – this time from Fawkes. He’d spent a point of Inspiration to unlock it, and there was no rational reason not to use it. It was there, ready and waiting, sitting neatly on his list of Abilities. And yet, he found himself avoiding it, letting it gather dust in the back of his mind, as though it didn’t exist.

  Why?

  “Do you regret your choice of Class, sir?” asked Mortimer, his tone even.

  “No, not really,” Hunter shook his head. “But even if I did, does it even matter now?”

  “Outright changing your Class is difficult, sir. Evolving it into something else, however, is a natural progression – and something you will, sooner or later, be able to achieve.”

  “Is that so?” Hunter raised an eyebrow, his interest and curiosity suddenly piqued.

  “Yes, sir. But I would suggest focusing on the matter at hand for now, if you don’t mind.”

  “Sure, yeah. What was I saying? Oh, yes. No, I don’t regret picking Mystic. If nothing else, it’s flexible. It’s served me well so far. It’s just that whole magic and spellcasting thing I can’t seem to bring myself to do.”

  “That unwillingness does not extend to your other mystical-themed Abilities, though,” Mortimer interjected. “Does it, sir”

  “No,” Hunter admitted. “The familiars and the charms, I’ve been okay with. Mystic’s Eye, I’ve been avoiding, but only because of the recoil. And Mystical Phenomena – well, I only recently learned that one, but I didn’t have any issues with training it.”

  “Would you say the issue lies with the magical nature of the Ability itself, then, sir?”

  “No. I guess it doesn’t. I think it’s the idea of blasting people with magic from afar that doesn’t sit right with me, though for the life of me, I can’t figure out why.”

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  “Does it similarly bother you when you have your raven familiars cast their curse Ability?”

  “No,” Hunter frowned. “It’s… I don’t know, that’s different. It’s not me that’s doing it, if that makes sense.”

  Hunter took another long sip of his drink, letting the comforting warmth settle in his chest. Mortimer remained silent, patient and composed as ever, giving Hunter the space to gather his thoughts before speaking again.

  “You’ve figured it out, haven’t you?” Hunter asked at last. “Why it rubs me off the wrong way.”

  “Yes, sir,” Mortimer replied smoothly. “Which means that, unconsciously at least, so have you.”

  “Want to give me a hint?”

  “Your choice of nom-de-joueur, sir. Where does it come from?”

  Hunter frowned, his gaze sharpening. “Hunter” had been his online username since third grade, ever since he’d rolled a hunter-class character in some shitty Korean free-to-play MMORPG. Twenty years later, it had stuck, becoming as much a part of his identity as his real name.

  “Flameborn Saga Online,” Hunter said. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d thought about that game. “Why?”

  And then it dawned on him.

  Flameborn Saga Online was one of those old, Asian-style MMOs that cared more about squeezing time – and money – out of its players than offering any kind of truly enjoyable experience. It was a digital treadmill of mindless mob farming, miniscule experience gains, and abysmal item drop rates.

  The game wasn’t even one of the popular ones. The only reason Alex had played it was because his dad’s old potato PC couldn’t handle anything better – and, of course, because it was free. If there was one constant in the Rulin household over the years, it was the total absence of disposable income. Gaming on a shoestring budget didn’t leave much room for choice.

  It was one of those kinds of games that thrived on frustration. For free-to-play accounts, progression was purposefully designed to be slow to the point of tedium – a way to drive players toward the in-game cash shop for shortcuts. Free accounts were restricted to the so-called Lowborn classes – Soldier, Hunter, Monk – and most of the game’s appealing content, along with basic quality-of-life features, were locked behind an endless series of paywalls. It wasn’t just a grind. It was a grind with the odds stacked against you.

  For premium players that shelled out for the monthly subscription, though, the endless slog that was Flameborn Saga Online quickly turned into a playground of instant gratification. With “advanced” features like auto-looting, faster travel, and bonus experience rates, progression became faster than free players could ever dream. Loot was handed out like candy. And, of course, premium players gained access to the eponymous Flameborn – the Sacred Flame Sorcerer. It was the only spellcasting class in the entire game, with flashy abilities and devastating area-of-effect spells that set it leagues above the mundane Lowborn options. For free players, it was both a glimpse of what they couldn’t have and a constant reminder of their second-class status.

  If that was where the disparity ended, it wouldn’t have been so bad. But Lowborn characters weren’t just restricted; they were used. The developers had turned them into a means to populate the otherwise content-poor world of the game, filling the barren landscapes with struggling players grinding endlessly for scraps. They served as living props in a game designed to cater to the Flameborn elite.

  In the grand Clan Wars that dominated the game’s endgame content, Lowborn characters were nothing more than cannon fodder. Their purpose was to pad out battles, ensuring the Flameborn players had enough bodies to mow down while racking up kill streaks and glory for their clans. Entire factions of Lowborn existed solely to make the Flameborn feel powerful.

  And when the Flameborn players got bored, their favorite pastime was roaming the lower-level zones, obliterating Lowborn characters for fun.

  With their overpowered spells and gear, they could wipe out entire parties in seconds, turning hours of grinding into a wasted effort with barely a thought. The penalties, if any, were a slap on the wrist: temporary debuffs or trivial bounties that other Flameborn could cash in.

  For the Lowborn, though, it was pure misery. They were disposable pawns in someone else’s power fantasy. Alex couldn’t begin to count how many times his character got one-shotted by a Fireball spell he never even saw coming. And for the Lowborn, the penalties for dying were brutal. Experience points weren’t just lost – they were ripped away in chunks, and it wasn’t uncommon for Lowborn characters to lose entire hard-earned levels because some bored kid with a premium account decided to park themselves in a spawn zone and rack up kills for fun.

  Alex could still remember the evening he’d asked his mom for a premium account. It was a week before Christmas. She’d just gotten home from work, and she’d promised Alex they’d put up a few decorations together. His dad’s shift wouldn’t be over for at least a couple more hours, and they wanted to surprise him.

  She was dead-tired – she always seemed to be – but she still tried to act cheerful. She put on some Christmas songs and helped Alex get the old banged-up cardboard box labeled “X-mas” from the high shelf of their small closet. The moment felt warm, almost perfect. Then he’d brought up the damn game.

  He sat there with her as she put up a few decorations on the small, banged up PVC Christmas tree and explained everything about the Lowborn and the Flameborn, and how they had magic, and why he would love to have a premium account too. Alex could still remember the look in her tired eyes as she paused, trying to find a way not to tell her eight-year-old that his family couldn’t afford to throw $16.99 a month at a crappy game.

  She’d asked him what would happen if he upgraded his account to premium for one month. Would he get to keep your Sacred Flame Sorcerer after that?

  Alex didn’t know, but the hope in her voice had sent him rushing to the computer to find out. He logged in, clicked through menus, and searched the FAQ with mounting excitement. As it turned out, of course, the answer was no. He’d only have access to the character for as long as he kept paying the subscription. One month wouldn’t cut it.

  She’d sat him down then, her hands resting gently on his shoulders, and tried to explain a few things about the Sacred Flame Sorcerers of the world in a way an eight-year-old could understand.

  “Those Sacred Flame Sorcerers,” she’d said softly, “they’re like the rich people in the world, Alex. They have all this magic, all this power, but it’s not because they earned it. It’s because they could afford to buy it. And they don’t care about the Lowborn, like us, who work hard just to get by. They use their magic to show off, to feel important, or to push others down just because they can.”

  Alex had hung his head and buried his face in her shoulder and did his best not to show his disappointment. But the haunting melody of “In the Bleak Midwinter” was drifting through the room, soft and melancholic, and he couldn’t stop a tear or two from slipping down his cheeks.

  “But you know what?” she’d gone on as she wiped his face. “People like us have to work smarter and harder, and that makes us stronger in the ways that matter. They’re spoiled, Alex. They don’t know what it’s like to really try, and because of that, they’ll never know what it’s like to really win.”

  It was a load of bull, of course, but Tom Waits was singing “Christmas Card from a Hooker in Minneapolis” just loud enough for Alex to pretend he didn’t hear the soft sobs coming from the bathroom where his mom had excused herself.

  He never got a premium account, of course. In fact, it was shortly after that – or maybe because of that – that his dad came home with a bootleg copy of The Elder Scrolls III: Morrowind. The cinematics were in Russian, but the weird world of the game was charming enough to absorb the young, impressionable Alex completely. He dove into the game and never looked back, dropping Flameborn Saga Online for good.

  And so, somewhere between the pay-to-win Sacred Flame Sorcerers of Flameborn Saga Online and the racist, power-hungry Telvanni wizards of Morrowind, Alex developed a deeply ingrained association between spellcasters and spoiled, arrogant bastards.

  It was a bias that, as it would turn out, would stick with him for at least the next twenty years of his life – a bias that would subconsciously prevent him from ever rolling a wizard character himself.

  Hunter didn’t tell Mortimer any of that. He didn’t have to; the bartender knew it already. He just sat there, nursing his drink, thinking, reminiscing. Mort didn’t disturb him. When he emptied his glass, he served him another drink without saying a word.

  “It’s silly, isn’t it?” Hunter said at last, breaking the silence. “So I don’t like offensive magic because pay-to-win players PK’d me a lot in some third-rate MMO when I was eight?”

  “I believe the true reason is a bit more nuanced than that, sir.”

  “Still, Mort. What a fucking cliché.”

  “With respect, sir,” Mortimer said calmly, “emotional trauma is not a cliché. Not in this case. It shaped you, and its influence is both understandable and significant. Acknowledging that is no weakness.”

  Hunter let out a long sigh, then slid off the barstool.

  “I’m off to get some sleep,” he said. “Thanks for the drink. Sorry if I wasn’t much company tonight.”

  “Good night, sir,” said the bartender, polite as ever. “Rest well.”

  Hunter was about to log out, but there was still something not sitting well with him. He hesitated, turning back toward the bar where Mortimer was quietly polishing a glass.

  “Hey, Mort? Can I ask you something before I go?”

  “Anything, sir.”

  “Is it bad if I still never become much of a wizard?”

  “You can choose to be or not to be whatever you wish, sir,” said Mortimer, setting down the glass he’d been polishing. “Just make sure you understand why.”

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