Name: Dal Rineloch
Class: Janitor
Level: 1
Abilities: Sweep (Tier I), Mop (Tier I)
Time Remaining: 15 Minutes
Chapter 1: Dal, the Cursed One
Some jobs were worse than others, and being a janitor in a rural town in Ostros was definitely at the bottom of the list.
If not for the fact that he didn't have enough time left for it to matter, Dal Rineloch might've tried a little bit harder to promote himself from Janitor to Custodian or at least level-up so that he did his job more efficiently. The difference in pay wouldn't be huge, but it would surely beat the measly 8 gold an hour he was earning as he worked to clean the floors of this seedy pub right in the middle of the hot, humid fields of the Summerglades.
As two burly men, likely masons, got into a drunken brawl, Dal sighed as a glass shattered, spilling shards of glass and alcohol all over the floor where he'd just mopped. Incredibly, the smell of alcohol helped dilute the even worse stench of piss that seemed to bleed from this pub's very walls. Dal, who tried so hard to be optimistic, could not force himself to like it here. The people weren't all that nice, and he was beginning to wonder if that was a characteristic common to everyone who lived in Ostros.
"Kid, you missed a spot," said a chubby, barely dressed, and bald-headed man seated at a wooden table off to his right. With sweat pouring down his face, he lifted a large mug of ale and downed it with one hand while pointing at the old wooden flooring with the other. Whether he did so out of a genuine desire to help Dal do his job or because he enjoyed the humiliation of it, Dal could not say. It made no difference.
Over the years, Dal had learned to just go with the flow and accept what life gave him, particularly when it came to things he couldn't control. It sure made his chaotic life a whole lot easier to bear, and the lessening of stress might've been why he looked decades younger than his actual age—or maybe that was a side effect of the curse. Honestly, for a man in his forties, he shouldn't still look like he'd just turned eighteen. His body didn't seem to age like everyone else's did. No matter how many years passed, he never advanced physically.
It's right about time for me to quit this job, he thought to himself. Still, it's been a long week. The Janitor class definitely isn't my favorite.
Smiling, Dal felt relief at knowing his current stint would very soon be over with. Actually, it was probably about time to wind things down. The last thing he wanted to do was to be in public view when he "shifted." Under no circumstance could he allow anyone to witness such an unnatural thing.
Walking across the old, uneven floorboards, he opened up the janitor's closet, stowing away the broom, mop, and dustpan. Following that, he removed the brown cap he was wearing, which freed his mid-length, tousled, and somewhat shaggy blond-colored hair, which had been poking out from beneath. His actions, however, did not go unobserved.
"Dal, you're stopping already?" Marina asked, appearing behind him.
"Sure am," he said to her. "Today's my last day, too."
She laughed. "Same here."
Marina was a decent enough woman with short purple hair and a pleasant face. She was in a pretty good mood, too, because finally, after years of trying, she'd been promoted from Barmaid to Tavernkeeper. Over the past week and a half that Dal had been working here, he'd learned from the others in the pub how hard she'd been struggling to earn a class promotion, especially at her age. The woman was in her late 30s, and most people never earned a class promotion after twenty-five. Few even managed to level up anymore after age 30, and very few people overall ever made it beyond their starting class.
Typically, class promotions required a great deal of effort and a sufficiently high level, though the level one managed to promote was different for everyone. In her case, Marina had needed to climb all the way to level-42 before she finally promoted to a level-1 Tavernkeeper. She would now probably have to seek employment elsewhere, as this place already had one; otherwise, she'd be forced to do a Barmaid's job with the skills and qualifications of a Tavernkeeper.
"You should really stay on a bit longer and try to level up," she said to him. "At your age, you've still got plenty of time to make Custodian—or maybe even Premises Manager."
He chuckled. He thought of telling her he was forty-seven years old, but she wouldn't have believed him, and the last thing in this world he wanted was to draw any kind of suspicion onto himself. Ever since he'd lost his parents, he'd lived a nomadic lifestyle, moving from place to place and changing occupations based on random chance.
And all because of this Goddamn curse.
See, Dal wasn't like everybody else in the world. There was something very, very wrong with him: something he had never been able to understand. It was something for which, despite searching, he could never find a reason or cause. Unlike every other person in the world, Dal did not have any genuine starting class. In fact, he didn't have any stable class at all, because for some reason, his class was always changing, and so was his level.
All last month, for example, he'd been a level-17 Cook. Well, level-19 by the time he'd finished. He'd made decent coin in the Ostros capital city of Freewind, and he'd found it very enjoyable. Unfortunately, when it was time to shift, he'd ended up a level-1 janitor with a time of 1 week—which ended in just a few more minutes.
"Maybe I will," he said to Marina after a moment of self-reflection. "But it won't be here."
She opened her mouth as though she had more to say to him, but he did not have the time to stay and chat. He needed to be out of here fast. Very quickly, he headed to the front counter and collected his final wages, and then he stuffed the 180g into his coin-purse and made his way towards the door.
Then he jumped back.
With a loud, wall-shaking bang, the door burst open all on its own, causing every patron of the pub to snap their heads in its direction, Dal included. Many people flinched, having been startled by it. But the real problem wasn't the sound—it was what, or rather, who, entered. Dal, frowning, braced himself as five tattooed, crooked-toothed men brandishing blood-stained hand-axes stormed their way into the pub.
Marauders, Dal thought. Ostros patrols just haven't been doing a good job since the war started.
In almost all cases, marauders were people of the Soldier class who had either deserted the military or were never a member in the first place. The Soldier class was also the only Battle Class it was possible for a Commoner to promote into—though doing so came at tremendous difficulty, and it was only available as an alternate path to Farmers.
Farmer->Field Defender->Caravan Guard->Soldier*
Soldier->Knight->Dragon Knight
"What do we have here?" a marauder asked. He was clearly the leader of the five, as he walked frontmost of them all. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man with a thick, black beard and balding black hair. Completely unprovoked, he grabbed the head of a screaming barmaid and slammed her face down onto one of the tables as she squirmed and struggled. He then pressed down on the back of her head, grinding it more forcefully into the wood while, with his opposite hand, he raised his arm and then brought his hand-axe smashing down onto the back of the woman's head, causing her to unleash a horrendous scream as blood splattered across the table and onto the floor that Dal had only just cleaned.
With the marauder's axe now several inches in the woman's skull, it seemed to cut deep enough to graze brain matter and derail the woman's motor functions, as her feet began to kick and dance in strange, bizarre ways, making an irregular tapping rhythm on the flooring while she visibly soiled herself.
I need to get out of here, Dal thought, filling with alarm as men and women alike began gasping and, in some cases, whimpering. Where the hell are the king's guards?
With the only exit blocked by one of the five men, the staff as well as the patrons of the pub began huddling together against the rear wall. Dal, joining them, eyed his surroundings for an escape—but not for fear of his life, but for fear of being seen. Really seen.
"Listen up, you fucking pieces of hillbilly trash," the marauder said as he pulled his axe out of the back of the woman's skull. Though she was dead, her body continued to twitch. "Me and my boys are in a bad, bad mood today. We had to ride all the way to the shit-reeking Summerglades because the son of a bitch who owns this place didn't pay his protection money this month."
The man, like those in here with him, was wearing a crude cuirass that appeared to be cobbled together from the hides of various poorly butchered animals. It gave him the appearance of an animal, one that he had likely deliberately cultivated. As he entered farther into the pub, he grabbed an unfinished bottle of ale off a table and downed it in four gulps before letting it drop and shatter on the floor.
"Now look, folks," he continued. "My score isn't with any of you." As he spoke, the deceased barmaid slid off the table and onto the floor, unmoving. "But unfortunately, I can't go back to the boss with nothing, and since the owner is too chickenshit to show his face, it looks like you're all gonna have to pay the tab. So, here's what happens now. Everybody in here gives me what they got, and if it adds up to at least 2000g, you get to walk out of here with your lives. Otherwise…" He made a gesture with his head towards the woman he'd killed. "You get the idea."
Dal swore under his breath.
Time Remaining: 5:22
He could not let himself shift in front of these marauders. If that happened, they would either capture him or, at the very least, sell that information to the highest bidder. Dal had worked his entire life to stay hidden. He'd drifted happily from job to job, never raising a fuss—and all to avoid what seemed poised to happen if he didn't get the hell out of here now.
Time Remaining: 4:52
The marauder, whose axe was now covered with a fresh coat of blood, gestured for two of those with him to follow while the other two guarded the exit. And so now, as the three of them began moving towards the huddled-together crowd of about thirty people, the patrons and staff alike were pressing their backs more tightly into the rear wall as if gaining an extra inch or two of distance would somehow make them any less unsafe than they currently were.
"You," the lead marauder said, extending his arm and pointing his axe at the chubby bald man who'd pointed out a missed spot only a few minutes earlier. "What have you got for me?"
The man ambled forward, leaving the huddled group of them. Very quickly, with his legs quivering, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a modestly fat satchel filled with coins. He handed it to the marauder. "Please don't kill me. This is everything I've got. Just please don't—"
"Quiet," the marauder said. He again pointed forward with his axe. "Get back with the others."
The man did not need to be told twice. He scrambled backwards and nearly fell over as he hurriedly rejoined the group of them. Now, with his arm still extended, the marauder shifted his axe to the left. "And you," he said to the next in line, a scrawny twig of a man dressed in shoddy rags. "Get over here."
The man hesitated. "Please," he begged. "Please, I don't—"
"I told you to get over here. Don't make me ask you again, boy."
The man, whimpering, nodded and shuffled forward until he stood across from the marauder, who scowled at him and asked, "Well? Show me the gold."
"I…I don't have any."
"What do you mean you don't have any?"
"I spent my gold this week, sir. But…but if you give me a few days, I can—"
The marauder quickly whipped his axe-bearing hand from left to right, striking the man directly across the face. The slap from the weapon took the whole front of his face off, exposing the bone and tissue beneath his cheeks. Blood and pieces of his lip rained down onto the flooring. It was a detestable, gruesome sight, but what made it all worse was that the poor soul looked more shocked than in pain. As though he could not believe what had just happened to him. He even raised his hand and touched the bloodied remains where a significant chunk of his face was missing.
"Pffft," the shocked, bloodied man said, causing more blood and pieces of his tongue to spit out of his deformed mouth. It was as though he'd wished to voice a question, clearly unable to understand what had happened.
The marauder, activating a skill Dal recognized immediately as Fast Cross Cut, made it so that the man would never ask a question again. With another, far, far faster whipping motion, he took the patron's head clean off his shoulders, causing it to roll several feet along the wooden floor while leaving a red streak behind; his eyes were still wide open in surprise.
Time Remaining: 3:15
Dal's body tensed apprehensively. He didn't have time for this now—in the literal sense. He needed to be gone from this place. Still, he calmed himself, choosing to remain quiet and to observe, hopeful that perhaps the marauders would speed things up. But the sick bastards seemed to enjoy drawing this out. If anything, they slowed.
The marauder called another two people forward, and both paid up, yet simply for the sake of cruelty, the marauder made as if he was going to slash them, causing them to cry out in terror. Though he did ultimately let them return to the group, neither returned with their trousers dry.
"Let me do the next one," grunted a slightly shorter, but equally as malicious marauder.
"Heh. You want a turn? Okay, go on, Maks."
The one called Maks pointed at the next in line, who happened to be Marina. Now, Dal gritted his teeth. He knew she didn't have what they wanted. In the week that he'd known her, he'd seen her lose every night at games of chance such as cards and dice. She was addicted to gambling, and he doubted she had much to offer. In fact, it was visible on her face.
"Let's go, sweetheart," the marauder said to her. "Don't keep me waiting."
She whimpered. "Please don't do this. I've got nothing to do with the owner and his debt. Please. I just promoted to tavernkeeper."
The marauder, in a sickening display of mockery, temporarily sheathed his hand-axe so that he could enthusiastically applaud her. This caused the others, including the two guarding the exit, to clap and cheer as well. "Wow, congratulations," he said, smiling. Then his smile inverted into a vicious scowl. "Now get the fuck over here before I lose my patience."
Marina, clearly unsuited to handle a high-stress situation, not only disobeyed, but began backing up, pressing herself flat into the wall. Her knees gave, and she began to cry and beg as she sank down into a sitting position. "No, no, please, no!" she shouted. "I don't have any money."
"You've got three seconds to get over here. Three," he began, counting. "Two…"
Marina did not move. She buried her face into her hands as if that would cause her to vanish. She was breaking down mentally. Dal had seen this many times over his life, especially during his stints as a mercenary. Commoners often fell apart mentally when their lives were threatened. It was what made fear such an effective tool in the hands of lowlifes like these.
Time Remaining: 1:31
"One," he said. And then the marauder called Maks raised his axe and began marching forward, moving directly towards Marina. She lifted her head, saw him coming, and screamed. Then she screamed some more as he neared, her begging and pleading intensifying.
My whole life is just a roll of the dice, isn't it? Dal thought with an exhale. Then he sucked air into his lungs and held it for a moment. Opening his mouth, he shouted at the marauder.
"Hey! Why not come for me instead? I'm getting bored standing here watching the rest of you have fun."
The marauder, who'd crossed a little more than halfway to Marina, paused mid-step and turned his head in Dal's direction. He wore a puzzled expression on his face, as though he were in disbelief that anyone would have the nerve to do what Dal had just done.
"What was that?" he asked.
"You heard me. I'm bored," he said, staring straight into the man's eyes. "I've been standing here doing nothing for a bit too long."
His words only seemed to further perplex the marauder. "You're bored?" he asked. "Or are you just insane?" He began to stomp his feet down as he quickly made his way over to Dal and away from Marina. The two were about equal height, and the marauder now stared intensely at him. "For a little boy, you've got some balls, kid. How would you like me to chop them off?"
"I'm not a kid," Dal said, frustrated.
Time Remaining: 1:15
"You sure look like one to me. What are you, a janitor?"
"A level-1 Janitor, actually," Dal said.
The man guffawed. Then he extended his hand and rested the sharp end of his axe on Dal's throat such that it scratched his flesh. He could feel just a trickle of blood pour down his neck. He did not flinch, however.
"Do you like gambling?" Dal asked him.
The man, still taken by intrigue, made a sickening smile at him. "Sure, kid. Who doesn't?"
"Would you like to make a bet?"
"A bet?"
Dal nodded. "That's right. A bet."
"What kind of bet?"
Time Remaining: 0:30
Dal smiled, then waited ten full seconds before speaking, time that he knew he had. He'd drawn this man's interest. His curiosity would give Dal at least that long. Finally, after the drawn-out stretch of silence, that felt far longer than it actually was, Dal said, "I bet you that if you wait just twenty seconds, you'll die."
The man looked at the other two marauders, then the two guarding the exit. All five then erupted with laughter. "You hit your head on something, little boy?"
"Many times," Dal replied. "But not this time. So, my wager still stands, only now it's fifteen seconds."
"Oh yeah? And what happens in fifteen seconds?"
Dal had gone his whole life avoiding a moment like this. And now, it was finally happening.
"In ten seconds, I will change. And when I do, I'll either be as bad off as I am now, or you will be. Or…maybe we'll have something a little more equal. But it's always a gamble."
Time Remaining: 0:05
The man scowled. "You're out of your fucking mind." And with that, he raised his axe and began swinging it down. It caused the air to whoosh as it raced towards the top of Dal's head.
Time Remaining: 0:00
CLASS SHIFT! NEW CLASS ASSIGNED
Name: Dal Rineloch
Class: Knight
Level:17
Abilities: Steel Body, Blade Sweep, Whirlwind Slash, Shield Bash, Battle Charge, Blade Lunge, Fast Cross Cut, Second Wind (30:00)
Time Remaining: 3 Hours, 25 Minutes
In just the time it took for the man's axe to bear down on him, a massive, almost explosive light surrounded Dal as every piece of clothing he wore vanished away from his body, replaced in the same instant by pristine, reinforced chainmail, which covered him from his shoulders down to his feet, along with an open-front helm that protected the top of his head and the sides of his face. His hands, which had previously been open and resting at his sides, now gripped a longsword in his right and a sturdy, steel shield in his left.
"You lose," Dal said.
In the fleeting moment before having his head bashed in, Dal, no stranger to the Knight class, activated Steel Body, causing the man's axe to crash onto his helm and bounce back off with a loud, vibrational ring. Then Dal thrust his sword-bearing arm forward and upwards, causing his blade to pierce him through the throat before exiting out the back of his head. The marauder gargled as Dal then yanked his arm back, stepping away as the marauder fell forward, plopping dead onto his belly.
The other two, staring agape, had little time to react. Dal activated Blade Lunge, causing his body to launch forward at an incredible speed while he extended his sword arm forward, his feet ripping up pieces of floorboard beneath him as he slammed shoulder-to-shoulder into the marauder leader while sending his blade directly into and through his heart.
"What…the…fuck?" he croaked as Dal pulled his weapon free; it was now covered with blood.
The marauder standing next to him backed away. "Wh-what the fuck!" he screamed, asking the same question as his dead comrade only with far more urgency and confusion. "What are you? What the fuck are you?"
Dal used Whirlwind Slash, causing his entire body to spin full circle fast enough to create a gust of wind that knocked several bottles of alcohol off the tops of numerous tables; the sound of glass shattering filled the pub as he sliced the man open from hip to hip. He dropped his axe and clutched his sides, but he was already as good as dead. He staggered side to side before collapsing with a thud.
The two marauders guarding the entrance charged forward. The one on the left swung his axe downward at an angle. Dal countered, swinging his longsword up and parrying, knocking it away. He followed with a riposte, which sliced cleanly through his throat, causing him to gargle and choke before falling to the floor. That left just the one. Before this one could make a move, Dal bashed him over the side of the head with his shield, causing his eyes to become unfocused as though stunned. And then he ended him with two quick follow-up slices.
Finally, he turned around, his blade dripping crimson. "I saved all of your lives," he said, trying to hide the desperation in his voice. "You never saw me. You never saw what I did."
But even as he spoke, he knew he was in trouble. The worst-case scenario had finally happened.
Without waiting for them to reply, he turned around and bolted out of the pub and into the field, his feet slamming down on the gravel road while the scorching sun shined down from above. As he ran, he dropped his sword and his shield, knowing he couldn't possibly keep them anyway. Whenever he shifted, anything he was given at the time of his previous shift was taken away, returning to wherever it came from.
What have I done? I've exposed myself!
He peeled off his armor even as he ran, though it was difficult to do. He began with the steel breastplate beneath the chainmail. He threw it onto the dirt. Then he pulled off his helm and dropped it as well.
He needed to be gone from this place. He needed to disappear.