“And you may ask yourself:

  ‘Well, how did I get here?’”

  - D. Byrne, Once In A Lifetime

  Layton opened his eyes as he always did: to the spectacle of a lavishly decorated—

  —dungeon?

  No, not a dungeon, precisely. Or, at least, not a dungeon cell. The massive iron door to the room was cracked open, so he wasn’t a prisoner. But the ambiance certainly gave a “we’re going to keep you down here with the rats until the Queen decides what to do with you” vibe.

  So where the hell was he?

  Where his ornate ghost oak bed frame should have been was instead a hexagonal stone block covered in thick purple velvet. His prized eclipse tiger rugs had been replaced with cryptic runes painted on marble.

  The familiar smooth, grey stone of castle walls was gone and in its place stood black brickwork with moisture collecting in the grout. It was this feature in particular, combined with the clanking of chains and distant screams, that gave Layton his original dungeon impression.

  There were beautiful tapestries dangling from the ceiling, which was the only feature that matched his own bedroom. But the embroidered images were unfamiliar, celebrating the conquest of Leyline Guardians he’d never defeated.

  This wasn’t his home. This wasn’t where he was supposed to appear after he died. In fact, he shouldn’t have appeared at all; Char should have been deleted when Bask killed him.

  So, once more for the cheap seats: where the fuck was he?

  The last thing he remembered was Bask crushing him underfoot and the memory of bones cracking brought a wave of nausea. He’d been killed by a Guardian. All that time and effort raising Char’s levels, erased with a single stomp. The thought of losing the storm guard brought a fresh taste of bile to his throat.

  Maybe he could petition for amnesty. After all, he only died because he wasn’t able to logout. BrainTrust, the company that owned the game, was notoriously secretive, but if he could find someone who would listen, surely he could make them understand the situation. It was a long shot, but…

  …But that still didn’t explain where he was. Or why he was anywhere at all. He should be looking at a loading screen, rolling stats for a new character, not standing in a creepy basement.

  He took a step toward the door and noticed two things, in the following order:

  First, his steps did not clank, which caused him to look down and see he was wearing dark leather boots.

  Second, his boots had little skulls on them.

  What. The. Fuck?

  He closed his eyes.

  >> AWAITING INSTRUCTION [MAMMON]

  What??

  “Account information.”

  >> LAYTON YOUNG. ANNUAL SUBSCRIPTION [THREE MONTHS ELEVEN DAYS REMAINING]

  None of this made sense. This was his account. So why was he inside Mammon’s body?

  “Logout.”

  >> ERROR INSTRUCTION NOT RECOGNIZED

  No need to panic. Just a glitch, probably from the update. He just needed to get back to Castle Voerhaven and sort this out.

  “List of steeds.”

  >> STEEDS CANNOT BE SUMMONED UNTIL LEVEL 25

  Weird response for the highest ranking player in the game. Also the biggest douche in the game, but that was hardly the point right now.

  The point was that Mammon should have at least dozen mounts that could take him to New Le Guinn. Layton had personally seen the bone bender fly into battle on a skeletal dragon; it was the only time he’d ever been jealous of the creep.

  Then again, these boots did look pretty flimsy. Not at all like the glowing patchwork of inhuman bones Mammon usually wore. And now that Layton was thinking about it, he felt…diminished. Like an awkward kid who always got picked last in gym class.

  Like himself in real life.

  He held out his arms, and instead of bulging biceps, he was greeted to the bare, skinny sticks of an underfed weakling. Mammon was a shrimp compared to Char, but this was pathetic even by zombified standards.

  That need-to-vomit feeling was back. He called up his ID block.

  Layton stared at the overlay, mouth agape, for what felt like an hour. His head was a swarm of bees. He squeezed his eyes shut so tightly that bright lights danced against the lids.

  Not only was he inside the body of the biggest loser in Silverdawn, he was first fucking level, with the shitty stats to prove it. The little “+1” tags meant he had a point to allocate, but why bother? Char had a 95 Body, including equipment bonuses. What difference would it make to increase Mammon’s 7 to an 8?

  >> AWAITING INSTRUCTION [MAMMON]

  “Logout. Logout. FUCKING LOGOUT.”

  >> ERROR INSTRUCTION NOT RECOGNIZED

  There was a soft knock on the door and a gravely voice from the other side said, “Archduke, sire? The council requests your presence.”

  Stepping back reflexively, Layton reached for his—

  Goddammit.

  This shitty belt didn’t even have pouches, much less a giant magic sword.

  A wooden spear leaned against the wall, its handle roughly carved into the shape of a raven. He grabbed it, marveling at how pale his hands were.

  No. Not his hands. Mammon’s hands.

  “I’m, uh, not feeling that great. Maybe we could reschedule?”

  Hinges creaked and an ancient man with a long beard poked his head through the doorway. His collar was high and black, like something out of an old vampire flick.

  The man cleared his throat. “You jest, sire. If—” He stopped and gave Layton a full up-and-down with eyes hidden behind thick grey cataracts. “You are not in your usual attire.”

  Yeah, well this is all you get at level one, Layton thought, but instead said, “I really don’t have time for meetings today…ah…”

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  He quickly pulled up his uninvited guest’s ID block, shaded green to indicate an NPC and tagged to confirm the computer-controlled vizier was loyal to Mammon. All of which was to say, the man was merely annoying and not an actual threat unless Layton went out of his way to start a fight.

  “…Aldious,” he finished. Then, mostly to himself, added, “What’s so important that we need to meet in the zombie conference room today, anyhow? Quarterly brain results below what you promised investors?”

  “The topic is the next tribute,” Aldious responded, utterly missing—or perhaps ignoring—Layton’s sarcasm. “My understanding is there has been a development. If the matter is not resolved soon…well, I don’t have to tell you what happens.”

  Yeah, you do actually. I have no idea what weird shit Mammon gets up to when he’s not terrorizing the local villagers.

  Of course, Layton didn’t say that, either. He gestured with an exaggerated arm swoop for Aldious to lead the way. “Fine. Let’s get it over with.”

  The path of least resistance seemed like the best plan for now. It was a long trek from Cthon to New Le Guinn and almost certainly a death sentence at his current level. He was going to need a horse and an escort, which meant he needed to play nice.

  And beyond that, Layton was now genuinely curious. Thanks to whatever glitch was happening, he was getting a personal tour of Boule Keep, the highly fortified sanctum of the Cthon Empire. Most players, including Layton, had never seen inside it. Might as well take a peek around, if only for the novelty.

  And so he followed Aldious down a series of narrow passages, all built from the same wet brickwork. Fat spiders watched from the ceiling and portraits of half-dead (maybe all dead, considering where he was) royalty with sunken eyes stared from the walls.

  The only light came from the occasional patch of bioluminescent lichen as they navigated turns and forks so often that it quickly became impossible to keep track.

  “How long have you known Mamm—uh, me?” Layton asked after what seemed like an eternity of silence.

  Aldious glanced over one shoulder with a thoughtful expression. “Years, my liege. Ever since you were a child.” His voiced echoed in the dank halls.

  “And have I always been a creepy dick?”

  The thoughtful expression deepened. “You rose to power in difficult times, sire. I expect many find your resilience and determination to be intimidating.”

  They stopped outside a rounded door built under a threshold made from the femurs of giants, each twice his height. Honestly, how could someone spend all their time around here and not come out a total weirdo?

  Aldious bowed deeply and stepped aside. Taking the hint, Layton pulled the door open and walked down narrow stairs into a sunken chamber with a round table. Three old women were hunched around the table (did anyone under the age of a thousand live here?), muttering animatedly to each other. In stark contrast to their candle-lit surroundings, they wore matching silver suits, hair pulled back in tight buns. In fact, the only real difference between them was the color of their eyes.

  Layton checked their IDs as he descended.

  “There has been a development, Archduke,” Morann, the one with golden eyes, croaked.

  “My job would be pretty boring if there wasn’t.” He tried to sound regal, but felt stupid. As Char, he was captain of New Le Guinn’s Royal Guard; an elevated position, to be sure, but he still answered to the Queen, her two princes, a particularly annoying Baron, and a whole host of other NPCs. Mammon was the only player to have ever ascended to any Kingdom’s throne.

  How did he do it? No one knew. But there were rumors.

  Oh, were there ever rumors.

  When none of the women spoke, he tried prompting a response. “You, ah, summoned me?”

  “Not ‘summoned,’ sire. We would never presume such an imposition.” This was Torann, the blue-eyed one. “But the matter is urgent.”

  All three crones looked to the center of the table where an oblong pool of murky liquid had been built into the surface, like a miniature lake.

  More curious than ever, Layton leaned in. At first, all he saw was silt and reflections from the candles on the walls. But then the water cleared and revealed images, blurry but identifiable as landscapes: forests, mountains, pools of lava.

  “What am I looking at?” he said, confused by the concern on their faces.

  “Nothing.” Morann again. “We’ve been scrying with your usual criteria but there is, as you see, nothing. No one.”

  Layton squinted at the rotating vistas. “Remind me what my criteria is again?”

  Fortunately, NPCs were controlled by artificial intelligence—sophisticated, to be sure, but not programmed to be suspicious of characters inhabited by the wrong players. Answering stupid questions wasn’t going to get him burned at the stake. Probably.

  “Three in total, sire. First, Travelers with very little experience.”

  NPC-speak for low level players, Layton thought. “Travelers” was an in-game term, a way to differentiate player-controlled characters from AI-controlled NPCs. Silverdawn was a stickler for full immersion.

  Torann chimed in, an acidic tone to her voice. “Second, Travelers who are within our Empire’s borders. You will recall our frequent objections to that one, but you have been insistent that this ‘stays in our yard,’ and that crossing into other Kingdoms uninvited is ‘something only a Royal Asshole would do.’”

  Can’t imagine who’d he’d have been talking about. “So what are you saying? You can’t find any inexperienced Travelers in Cthon?”

  That would indeed be odd. Every Kingdom, including Cthon, should be teeming with low level players.

  “It’s more dire than that. Please forgive our impudence, but we expanded your criteria, due to the grave importance of the matter.” For the first time, Gorann spoke up, straightening her tie nervously. Her eyes were bright pink, decidedly out of place in Cthon’s usual color palette. “We can’t find any Travelers in Cthon at all. Other than yourself, of course.”

  Well, that made no sense. Although, come to think of it, he’d not seen another player since waking up here.

  “Something must be interfering with the magic, Archduke,” Morann glanced at the other two. “Our results are…clearly wrong.”

  The other two refused to meet her gaze. Something was up.

  “What are you not telling me?”

  Torann was the first to work up the courage to answer, and cleared her throat to signal she wasn’t happy about having to volunteer. Layton decided he liked her best.

  “When we first scried for Travelers with limited experience, we actually did find one.” She set her jaw defensively, expecting a fight. “You.”

  Morann hastily cleared the air. “As we said, obviously an error in the spell. We’ll refocus our efforts.”

  Layton looked for a seat, found none, and leaned against the wall instead.

  The latest update had broken the game even worse than he realized. Not only was he in the wrong character and somehow first level, but he was the only one still playing.

  Of lesser importance, but still a matter of some curiosity: why was Mammon looking for low level players in the first place?

  “Got it.” He sniffed, feigning nonchalance. “And could you, ah, remind me why this matters?”

  The well-dressed women exchanged another concerned look.

  “Are these tests, sire?” Morann asked?

  “Sure, yeah.”

  Straightening herself, Gorann spoke evenly, like a kid called upon in class. “Because the One Who Dwells Within demands a sacrifice.”

  Pieces began falling into place and Layton didn’t like the picture they were making. He spoke slowly, making sure he wasn’t misunderstood. “And you’re looking for fresh lambs to slaughter.”

  “Yes, sire. As She demands. As is Her will.”

  Holy shit. The rumors were true.

  Honestly, as much as Layton thought Mammon was a creep, he always figured the more outlandish tales were Silverdawn ghost stories, meant to scare newbies. But it was all true: Mammon was a serial killer. A virtual one, admittedly, but still—inside the game, at least, he was a straight up psychopath.

  “Huh,” he said, not sure what else he could say. The others relaxed, sensing they’d passed the test.

  Torann had the faintest trace of a smile on her face. “There is one other development, Archduke.” She was clearly excited to share the information, so Layton simply nodded for her to continue. “It’s about your third criteria.”

  Oh right. He’d forgotten all about that, although it hardly seemed relevant. Still, no reason to deny her the pleasure of revealing some good news. “Go on.”

  “In the past, it has always been what you called a ‘back-up plan.’”

  “Actually, I believe the Archduke referred to it as a ‘safety net,’” Gorann interrupted, a little too smugly. She was clearly the teacher’s pet.

  “I probably called it both.” Layton shrugged. “I’m a walking cliche. What’s your point?”

  After giving her peer a reproachful stare, Torann gestured to the pool. “You may finally have a chance to use it.”

  Layton pushed himself off the wall and once more leaned over the table. The water rippled again, only this time there was no procession of desolate landscapes. Instead there was a figure. A single, solitary figure, alone and looking completely lost as he wandered a castle hallway.

  For a moment, Layton didn’t recognize him without the ornate armor and oversized weapons. But beneath the shoddy chainmail was a face he recognized, tightly gripping an embarrassingly plain longsword like a safety blanket.

  It was Char. He was watching himself.

  Except it wasn’t him. Someone was using Char the way he was using—

  “Motherfucker,” he whispered.

  “Sire?” No idea which one said that. And Layton didn’t care.

  “MotherFUCKER,” he repeated, much louder this time. “Killing Char was the safety net?”

  Torann ran a finger across the pool and the image faded. She grinned. “Indeed. Although abducting him would require crossing the border.”

  “Well, what’s the point of being Archduke if you can’t break a few rules, right?”

  All three women were briefly outlined in a golden aura; an effect only Travelers could see and one that Layton had witnessed countless times. He’d just accepted a quest.

  He summoned his ID block to confirm.

  Well, that was ominous as fuck.

  Grinning happily, Torran rubbed her hands together. The idea of choosing Char for a ritual sacrifice was making her giddy. “I’ll inform the others that a lamb has been selected.”

  Layton decided she wasn’t his favorite any more.

  “Oh, I’m going to pay that piece of shit a visit, for sure.” He headed for the exit. “And I can’t wait to show him proof.”

  “Proof of what, sire?” Gorann called from the table.

  He called out his answer as he slammed the door behind him:

  “That Mammon’s a goddamn villain.”

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