The caravan began to come back to life, filling the air with the sounds that usually follow a catastrophe: groans, the clanging of iron, and choice profanity. For some reason, it smelled of overheated beer and copper. The caravaneers were gathering scattered goods, stabilizing tilted wagons, and bandaging wounds. A group of guards was collectively trying to calm an aggravated boar, which seemed to have gone into a frenzy and was enthusiastically trying to chew through a wagon wheel. The blue-skinned man was inspecting the unconscious corpse of a bandit, evaluating the quality of his handiwork.

  The trembling in my knees threatened to escalate into a full-scale collapse, so I leaned against a nearby crate. I felt like a squeezed lemon that someone had decided to zest for good measure. PE: 8, ME: 1, but at least my health, thanks to the dwarven "artillery," had restored to its maximum. Not exactly the consumption rate I’d hoped for in an intense encounter, though. The red mist had sealed the wounds with fresh pink skin, leaving only sticky streaks of dried blood and a slight itch. My body didn't quite seem to believe it had regained its integrity so easily.

  My gaze fell upon Chameleon’s Tail, which I was still clutching in a sweaty palm. The sword had transformed: all the rusty husk had finally fallen away, revealing a matte bone spike with a fluid curve.

  "Congratulations on your first upgrade," Valtar piped up. "Your little gift has finally shown its teeth. Or, in this case, ribs. You’re no longer a laughingstock. Because of the sword."

  I summoned my inventory, feigning a coughing fit to hide my finger movements.

  [Chameleon’s Tail] Enchantment: Mimicry. Effect: Takes the form of a weapon it has touched, reproducing its effects at 50% strength. Saved Forms: 1/3. Current Form: Deemon's Rib. Effects: None detected. Damage: 8. Change appearance? Absolutely not. This form was great at making holes in meat; I’d experienced that firsthand.

  "The Matriarch’s Thighs!" a booming bass thundered, and the bald dwarf began a heavy-footed march toward me. "Lad, you really put on a show! I swear by my grandfather’s promissory notes, I thought it was time to order tombstones at a wholesale discount! And a female enemy... Phew! Wouldn't wish that on enemy!"

  If he held a grudge for my kinetic shove, he hid it well. The dwarf was a typical representative of his kind: he compensated for a lack of height with solid width and density, radiating energy like a steam engine gone rogue. He wore a doublet stained with road dust and something dark, a dented but clearly expensive belt buckle, and a face that resembled a good-natured boulder.

  "Modsognir of Silver River, at your service!" He unceremoniously clamped my hand in his massive palm, nudged me away from the crate, and slapped my now-free back so hard I was surprised I didn't take damage. Then he pulled a silver amulet from beneath his clothes, engraved with a grid field and lines that intersected in a bizarre pattern, covering every cell. "League Merchant of this sector and father to three lovely disasters! And who might you be, our savior, may the trow kiss you?"

  "I’m... Lex. From Nowhere," I replied, trying to regain feeling in my fingers.

  "Lex from Nowhere. I’ve heard of it, heard of it! Great weather there this time of year," the dwarf guffawed, slapping his thighs. "Well, thanks, lad. Seriously. You saved us, no point knead fairies. For that, I’m in your debt. And dwarves, as you might know, treat debts religiously: we either pay them back with interest or gnaw on granite until the end."

  "You’ve gained ten reputation points with the 'Traders’ League' faction," Valtar said. "And an achievement to mark the occasion."

  The notification flickered in my eye, but I didn't let it distract me from the conversation.

  "Tell you what, Lex from Nowhere," the dwarf pulled me closer, smelling of tobacco. "As a reward for saving all I own—marry my daughter!"

  "He’s joking," a dwarven lady in a dusty traveling dress peeked from behind a wagon, looking at her husband in a way that made him immediately understand he was, in fact, joking. With a look like that, she could probably tame Valtar himself.

  Another dwarf stopped nearby, a younger one, and inspected me with interest. She was carrying two crates on her shoulders that humans would have carried in pairs. I noticed her youthful so-called whiskers—the kind that should be mercilessly shaved, regardless of gender. It became instantly clear that Modsognir was joking.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  "Barely contained mockery: Just look at him go!" Valtar, of course, couldn't resist pouring thick sarcasm over my life. "Collecting all the gifts of fate. Truly grabbing... ahem, the bride by the beard."

  "But where am I going to put them, Nyi?!" the dwarf wailed, theatrically wringing his hands. "Only one caravan, only one can inherit! What do I do with the others?!"

  "I would be grateful for information on the current situation," I said, making a desperate attempt to shift the conversation and escape the family ties.

  Success. Modsognir grimaced and released from my personal space.

  "Usually, the guards and the boarlers are enough to scare off the riff-raff. But not today, may lightning strike it."

  "Better not, we’re still in it. Let lightning strike today tomorrow," a low voice rumbled. The blue-skinned brute had approached unnoticed, despite the fact that his head broke the psychological two-meter mark. His white hair was tied in a messy ponytail and had growing on his jaw as a small beard.

  "Fjord, you were less useful today than usual," Modsognir grunted, but without real malice—it sounded like a traditional barb. "Namely, your intimidating look didn't work."

  "You should have hired Loyalists, Mod. But you went for the cheap me," Fjord replied with little interest. "Besides, I don't have tricks against witches."

  The dwarf huffed. "Fine, I admit it. Point taken. That troll-bride suppressed our emotions like a dragon over a goblin. Even the animals. An Empath mage! But you..." Modsognir turned to me, "you weren't affected. Will you take a contract? Because of this raid, my bookkeeping has gone to lava, but I’ll provide supplies for the road."

  He reached into a surviving crate and set several multicolored vials on the lid.

  "Here. Regenerative capsules. For the body, for thoughts, for spirit, and for emotions. Break them when things get tight. And one more thing..." He pulled out a small metal box embossed with a tiered ring and spoke with an air that suggested the words carried more weight than gold: "Take it. This isn't some Syndicate crap. Would we haul junk halfway across Transcendal? This thing has survived several caravans."

  "Oho," Fjord perked up, showing a flicker of interest for the first time. "An Adventurer’s Reliquary."

  "The very one," the dwarf confirmed proudly.

  "My guild produces them," the blue-skinned man continued. "You can take it for free, obviously. In the worst case, its contents will at least make you laugh."

  "Now your usefulness is going into the negatives," Modsognir said, not appreciating the guard’s sudden animation.

  "So, what’s the task?" I brought the conversation back to practical matters. The capsules genuinely interested me. Resources.

  "Those scum didn't just rob me," the dwarf’s face turned back into an angry boulder. "They insulted the League. They insulted me and my family. I want you to send them to the Subterranean King with my personal recommendations. And for common safety, of course. Since their wench’s magic doesn't work on you, you’re our best and, frankly, only trump card. You’ll take Blue as a partner." He nodded toward Fjord. "He’s a tracker. He could find a pimple on a fuath’s backside. Upon your return, I’ll settle the accounts and reward you for two feats at once: the rescue, and the... sanitary cleanup. Deal?"

  "And what about me?" Fjord asked without much hope.

  "I already pay you too much."

  The offer was more than reasonable. Much more. I had no map, no money, and no understanding of local customs. Strategic gain: equipment, information, a temporary ally, and an actual goal. Tactical risk: high probability of violent death. The balance tipped toward adventure. As it always did.

  "He’s actually thinking about it," Valtar noted. "I wonder which specific neurons are firing in that skull of yours? The ones responsible for survival, or the ones for paranoia?"

  Paranoia, I had to admit, was at an all-time high. But this was my now-familiar choice between a step into the unknown with a chance for profit and dying alone.

  "I’ll do it," I said.

  Modsognir nodded as if he expected no other answer. He handed me an advance and immediately switched to the next priority: restoring order to the caravan.

  "Garv, tend to the wounded! Stuff that boar with food so he stops rioting! Absa, I’ll carry you to the shoulder myself! We’ll rebuild these broken crates and they'll be sturdier than your skull! Girls, get cooking! This bloody mess has given me an appetite."

  A message popped up before my eyes, which Valtar immediately voiced with the pathos of a bad stage actor:

  [Quest Received: "Sanitizer of the Hillwood" Client: Modsognir of Silver River. Description: You have encountered the "Crimson Blade" gang, which uses empathetic suppression for robberies. This is outrageous, unsportsmanlike, and ruins traffic. Find their lair and explain to them in a language they understand why stealing is hazardous to one's health. Special Condition: Neutralize player Abrakta. Reward: Honor, respect, and something Modsognir calls "good profit." Oh, and experience from me.]

  "Congratulations on your first employment in the new reality!" Valtar added. "Your labor contract doesn't include pension contributions or health insurance, mind you, but it usually only lasts until the moment of your heroic death. Lex, you’re looking more like a hero from a cheap adventure novel every minute. All you’re missing is a dramatic cloak."

  My new life was finally gaining momentum. It smelled of road dust, questionable deals, and blood, but now I had a path. And at least some company.