Reaching the village, I found it alive in a way cities never managed. Cities roared—they swarmed and pushed and pressed—but this place breathed. Every corner of it carried something strange, something wondrous. Bear-like beastkin walked with fire curling from their claws like living torches. A tall, blue, elf-shaped person drifted past, five eyes blinking in calm succession. A figure of pure crystal chatted animatedly with a pair of cloth-wrapped merchants.

  But the people I saw most often were the short ones—broad-shouldered, bright-skinned folk whose arms outnumbered mine by a concerning margin. Five arms each: three on the right, two on the left, with a single curved horn jutting from the left side of their skulls like a half-moon blade. Skin in every color imaginable—saffron yellow, sky blue, coal black, chalk white, even one shimmering iridescent like abalone. The variety should have made them all look different, yet something in the posture, the easy stride, the wide-set stance told me they were the same people.

  No one stared. No one whispered. A few waved casually, as if strangers walked through here daily. I waved back, trying not to look as overwhelmed as I felt.

  Scents swirled together the deeper I walked. Hearty stews simmering in clay pots outside open-windowed homes. The sharp, oily reek of tanners working hides in a side alley. Bright citrus notes of freshly cut fruits. The leafy smell of vegetables still dusted with soil. Smoke from cookfires. Dirt. Spices. Life.

  The whole village felt like a marketplace of stories, each person carrying their own.

  “Oi. Lad.”

  The voice snapped me out of my daze. I looked down—and nearly startled. The man (I hoped it was a man) was short and stout, close to a dwarf, but where a beard should’ve been was… mud? Or clay? A thick, wet beard of it, shaped and textured like coarse hair.

  He jabbed a clay-covered thumb up at me. “Lad. Tryin’ to help ye here.”

  “Oh—sorry.” I motioned awkwardly, trying to focus. “What, uh… seems to be the issue?”

  “No issue.” He scowled, but it looked less angry and more deeply carved into his face by nature. “Just that you look like a fish what got scooped up by a gull, flown three laps ‘round the moon, then dropped down a chimney. Name’s Rorin. Rorin Angerton of the Angerton clan. And yours?”

  “Morgan. Morgan of the Barlow Clan?” I ventured, voice rising at the end.

  Judging by the pitying shake of his head, I’d said the wrong thing.

  “Doubt ye got a clan, lad,” Rorin said plainly. “Ye ain’t Mudrin, Dwarvish, Gnomish, Orcish, nor Goblin. But ye tried, and that’s what counts.” He thumped his clay-beard proudly. “Welcome to Swallow’s Rest. Blessed this year with a fine harvest and a finer drink. Now—what brings ye?”

  “Thank you,” I said, returning the nod. “Honestly… I’m exploring. I got lost in the forest. Stroy pushed me this way.”

  “Oi.” His expression softened at once. “Stroy’s a good lad. Keeps t’himself, but he’s a good one. Drives off the nastier beasts from our cattle. Brings in the extra from his hunts. Always been a help. Glad he found ye. What were ye doin’ out there?”

  The truth hovered in my throat, heavy and half-formed.

  “I’m… honestly trying to find myself,” I said at last, the words trailing off into the air between us. Even I could hear the uncertainty in them.

  Rorin snorted—not unkindly. More like someone who recognized the sound of a young man lost.

  “Well then,” he said, hooking one thumb into his belt. “Ye came to the right place. Folk wander to Swallow’s Rest lost all the time. World’s big. People are small. Nothin’ wrong with not knowin’ where ye’re headed.”

  He jerked his head down the village path.

  “Come on then, Morgan-of-No-Clan. If ye’re lookin’ for yerself, might as well start by fillin’ that stomach. Hard t’do soul-searchin’ on an empty gut.”

  He lumbered ahead.

  And I followed—gratefully.

  ***

  “This here is Momma Mo’s,” Rorin said, jerking his thumb toward a large, timber-framed building humming with activity. Half the folk of the village seemed to be moving in or out of its double doors. “Well—half of it is. The other half’s for the venturers and the like. They post up there, take contracts, argue about maps, drink too much, make promises they can’t keep. We don’t get many, mind you. Mostly the ones sent t’ handle some specific beastie from that forest ye stumbled out of—though none’ve been needed this season, thank Agar.”

  I nodded, letting the crowd’s energy wash over me. The mingled scents of spiced stew, woodsmoke, wet leather, and strange bioluminescent fungi drifting from open windows made the place feel impossibly alive.

  Rorin continued, jabbing a thumb at my chest.

  “For most folk—those without that shiny little orb at yer neck—they’d march themselves right in, sign up for the guild, and start earning their keep. Good life. Hard, but good. For you, though…” He squinted at the Sphere as if it personally annoyed him. “…not the worst choice either, but ye’s got another path ye can walk.”

  “You mean my Sphere?”

  “Oi, lad. Yes, I mean yer bloody Sphere.” He huffed, like I’d asked whether water was wet. “No one wears one of them without drawing attention. You walk into the guildhall with that thing glinting in the lamplight and ye’ll have a crowd within minutes. Likely a group wantin’ to be yer first challengers if ye haven’t had any yet. Bloody little bastards.” He rolled his eyes, but the grin tugging at the corners of his clay-beard showed he wasn’t truly bothered.

  He shook his head, expression softening in a way I didn’t expect.

  “Nah. Truth told, I feel a bit sorry for you Sphere-folk. Half of ye get raised as the ‘backup’ to the legitimate heir—trained, polished, pushed into some mold yer elders think is proper. Then, when succession comes? Off ye go. Maybe ye get a scroll, a dusty spell, or some relic they don’t mind partin’ with—and that’s it. World says, ‘Live life on yer own now.’ Not fair, I tell yahs.”

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  His eyes lifted to meet mine.

  “But I reckon you already know that part, eh lad?”

  I didn’t respond. I didn’t need to. The silence between us said enough.

  “What do you mean there’s no quests!?” a sprightly male voice shrilled across the guildhall. “Surely there is! A goblin hunt? A slime hunt? A bandit hunt? Anything!?”

  The reply was flat, polite, and utterly unmoved.

  “Currently,” the receptionist said, “there are no active quests under the category: ‘Hunts.’ The quests available are for herb collection, mushroom gathering, or the recovery of a missing cat.”

  “Yes—and I told you! Those are F-rank flunkie quests for a reason! I can’t get to E-Rank with that!”

  I turned toward the commotion—only to see a scene that honestly could’ve walked straight out of a comedy video back home. A very agitated felinid—striped tail puffed, ears flattened in despair—was yelling at the calmest, tiniest mousefolk I had ever seen. The little guy didn’t even blink. He looked like he’d seen centuries of tantrums from adventurers and had reached a state of enlightenment.

  “Incorrect,” the mouse clerk said, adjusting his spectacles. “E-Rank evaluation is based on achievement, level, highest skill, and highest discovery. If you desire advancement, I strongly recommend the mushroom-gathering quest.”

  “I’ve told you,” the felinid groaned, claws twitching dramatically, “searching for mushrooms is flunkie work!”

  Rorin snorted beside me, catching my expression.

  “Get used to that, lad. Half the village youngsters with adventure dreams act like they’re destined to save the world—but none wanna pluck mushrooms.” He shrugged. “Ye’ll likely get a few of them beggin’ to hunt inside yer Sphere once word gets out.”

  “Wait—my Sphere?” I blinked. “Why would they—?”

  “You set yer taxes yet?”

  “…Taxes?” I whispered back.

  The Sphere chimed in immediately, flooding my senses with information.

  [Taxes: Every Sphere Holder acquires a percentage of monster-drop rewards earned within their domain. This compensates for mana expenditure during monster generation.]

  Current Tax Rate: 0%.

  Available Tax Modes: Item, Dice, Flat Fee.

  Explain options? I asked silently.

  I was really starting to understand why Thorn called this thing encyclopedic—it did answer, sure, but with all the grace of a textbook.

  [Item Tax Rate]: A percentage of total item drops is automatically collected by the Sphere upon a challenger’s exit. The tax is based on all drops generated, not only those the challenger picks up.

  [Dice Tax Rate]: A percentage of the Dice obtained is collected. Recommended default: 20%.

  [Flat Fee]: Challengers pay a set fee to enter the Sphere. No items or Dice are taxed. Fee is collected upon entry.

  Can I combine taxes?

  [Yes.]

  Set Item Tax to 10%. Dice Tax to 25%.

  [Item Tax: 10%. Dice Tax: 25%. Would you like to set a Flat Fee to bypass these?]

  Not at this time.

  “Yes,” I said aloud, turning back to Rorin a bit triumphantly. “I…have my taxes set.”

  He barked a laugh. “Oi! Good lad. Here’s hopin’ ye rake in a crown or thirty before the week’s out.”

  The felinid behind us resumed groaning about mushrooms.

  “Okay,” Rorin said, hitching a thumb toward the far end of the hall, “if ye wanna get yerself registered as an adventurer too, get in that line over dere.”

  I followed his gesture to a towering green-skinned woman who looked like she could bench-press a boulder with one hand. Thick tusks curled from her lower jaw, her black hair was tied in a warrior’s knot, and an eyepatch of dark leather covered her right eye.

  “She might look mean,” Rorin whispered conspiratorially, “but she’s a total softie. Heart of verdite, that one.”

  “Isn’t the saying ‘heart of gold’?” I asked.

  “Aye, but gold’s soft—and bends easy.” Rorin puffed out his chest, looking very proud of himself. “Verdite’s sturdy. Tough. Pretty too, once polished. Just like her. Kind, but stubborn.”

  A shadow fell over us.

  “She can also hear you, Rorin.”

  We both jolted. The orc woman was already striding toward us—smooth, powerful gait, the kind you only got from years of either military work or scaring people into good decisions.

  “Lass!” Rorin squeaked. “Mal, dear, didn’t see ye dere.”

  Her one visible eye narrowed—not in anger, more in the way a big sister narrows her eyes when catching a sibling doing something foolish.

  “Didn’t see me,” she repeated, deadpan. “Right. And I suppose you weren’t telling tall tales again?”

  “Oi, lass, why don’ ye ask him?” Rorin’s cheeks were going pink. “He’ll tell ye!”

  “Because,” she said, folding her arms, “I know you’re still terrified of me after that incident with—”

  “Now now lass, no fair!” Rorin blurted, practically stumbling over his words. “We agreed not to mention that in public!”

  Mal rolled her eyes and waved the matter off. “Fine. Fine.”

  Then she turned her attention to me, and the shift was instant—her posture relaxed, voice softening into something warm and approachable despite the sheer physical intimidation she radiated.

  “As I said,” she repeated, offering a hand the size of a dinner plate, “name’s Mal. And you, Tree-top?”

  “Morgan,” I said, giving a respectful nod and bow. Her hand engulfed mine in a brief, firm shake.

  “Oo,” Mal hummed with clear approval, “polite and well-mannered. Haven’t had one of those through here in a while.”

  She gestured broadly toward the hall—wooden beams overhead, trophy antlers lining the walls, hunters and aspirants chatting loudly around long tables.

  “Welcome to the Swallow’s Rest Adventurer’s Guild Post. We’re small, but we keep the area running. Hunters report here, wandering adventurers stop in here, and every kid who dreams of being a hero comes barging in here sooner or later.”

  Rorin elbowed me lightly. “And ye, lad, look like ye fit right in.”

  Mal smiled—a small, surprisingly gentle smile for someone who looked like she could throw me through a building.

  “Well, Morgan,” she said, hooking a thumb toward the registration desk behind her, “if you’re lookin’ to start makin’ your mark, I can get you set up.”

  I exhaled slowly.

  Another step forward.

  Another system.

  Another world.

  Time to figure out who my mother was, who I am, and what I’ll even be.