[Subroutine Ping] Scan complete. Cognitive anchor calibrated. Basic interface enabled.
Dex blinked. No voice had spoken, yet the words arrived fully formed, sketched into his awareness the way nightmares work: intimate, intrusive, undeniable.
A shimmer bloomed in his periphery. He flinched. A translucent glyph seemed to float midair, then vanished like breath on glass. But as it faded, he realized it hadn’t been in the air at all. It had been carved into his perception, branded behind his eyes.
[New Skill Acquired: Identify - Rank 1] You now know what it is. That may not help. But still, you know.
The message didn’t scroll or fade. It resolved, like a thought clicking into place with the weight of certainty. A strange tingle followed, like static discharge in reverse, drawing something out rather than building it up.
So I can identify things now. Great. Because that’s what I needed on top of everything else, a voice in my head with opinions about mysterious objects.
He wandered deeper into the market, still reeling from the impossibility of it all. The stalls around him displayed items that defied explanation. At one booth, a small orb caught his attention, glowing faintly blue and suspended in liquid that moved wrong, too thick, too deliberate.
What the hell is that thing?
He could ask the vendor, a hunched woman with silver-streaked hair and eyes that tracked his movement like a cat watching prey. But something about the way she smiled, all teeth and calculation, made his chest constrict. The familiar instinct to become invisible kicking in. This new skill was right there, waiting. Easy. Anonymous.
Might as well try it.
He focused on the orb.
[Item: Arcane Residue Orb] Residual magical discharge trapped within synthetic crystal. Low stability. Use unknown. Warning: Do not consume.
Magical discharge. Right. Because that’s a normal thing to bottle and sell.
He stared at the description, trying to process it. In his world, “magical discharge” would be the kind of phrase you’d find in a fantasy novel. Here, it was apparently just another product category, like organic produce or fair-trade coffee.
“Interested in the orb, surface-walker?” The vendor’s voice cut through his thoughts like a rusty blade.
Dex startled. “I, uh, was just looking.”
“Looking’s free. Touching costs extra.” Her smile widened, revealing teeth that had seen better decades. “That particular one’s fresh from the Catacombs. Still humming with potential. Course, it might also explode if you sneeze on it wrong.”
“Explode?” Dex took a step back.
“Probably not.” She shrugged. “But if it does, try not to bleed on the other merchandise.”
Another line flickered beneath:
Additional information locked. Identify rank too low.
Rank too low. Right. Because apparently my life has become a video game where I need to grind levels just to get basic information about potentially explosive magical orbs.
He kept walking, mind spinning faster than his feet moved. The market pressed around him like every crowded street fair he’d ever tried to escape, all elbows and no exits. The air was thick with something that reminded him of pennies and burnt circuit boards, and the rune-stones overhead flickered with the same irregular pulse as bad fluorescent in a dying mall, casting harsh shadows across faces that lingered on him just long enough to feel deliberate.
He moved on, unsettled but oddly fascinated. The next stall was even more disturbing: rusted trinkets and bone-carved pendants that looked like they’d been pulled from graves with stories to tell. The vendor here was absent, leaving the merchandise unattended, which somehow made it worse.
A narrow vial caught his eye, filled with swirling, viscous black fluid that shimmered when the light hit it wrong. Like oil, but with purpose.
No. Don’t think like that. It’s just... liquid. Probably harmless liquid.
But his instincts were screaming otherwise. He’d seen enough horror movies to know that mysterious black liquids never meant anything good. Still, curiosity won out.
He focused on the vial.
[Item: Vial of Echo-Tincture] Alchemical remnant steeped in residual memory. Unpredictable effects. Inadvisable for casual consumption.
Steeped in residual memory.
Dex read the description three times, each pass making less sense than the last. How did you steep memory? Like tea? Did someone just drop traumatic experiences into a pot and let them simmer?
And they’re selling it. Just... selling bottled memories to random people.
The implications crawled under his skin like insects. Whose memories? How did they get them? What happened if you drank someone else’s trauma?
“Fascinating, isn’t it?”
Dex spun around to find a thin man in scholar’s robes watching him with interest. The newcomer’s eyes held the kind of intellectual hunger that made Dex want to back away slowly.
“The tincture,” the man continued. “One of the more... ethically questionable alchemical innovations. The memories aren’t volunteered, you understand.”
“Not volunteered?” Dex’s stomach clenched. “You mean they’re stolen?”
“Extracted. Usually from the dying. Sometimes from the recently dead.” The scholar spoke with the casual tone of someone discussing the weather. “The process is quite invasive. But the results... well, imagine experiencing someone else’s final moments. Their fears, their secrets, their last regrets.”
Dex stared at the vial with new horror. “And people buy this?”
“Knowledge seekers. Thrill hunters. The desperately curious.” The scholar shrugged. “There’s always a market for forbidden experiences.”
He held Dex’s gaze a moment longer, cataloguing something, then turned back to the stall with the mild detachment of someone who had already moved on. The conversation, apparently, was complete.
Dex backed away, stomach churning. His eyes fell on a small pendant hanging from a nearby hook, carved bone wrapped in wire that seemed to shift slightly in the rune-light.
More bones. Of course.
He was starting to detect a pattern in this market. Half the merchandise seemed to be made from body parts. In his world, that would be evidence of serial killing. Here, it was apparently just Tuesday.
Against his better judgment, he used Identify again.
[Item: Bone Charm] Carved from unidentified remains. Purpose unclear. Radiates faint magical residue.
Unidentified remains.
The phrase hit him like a slap. This wasn’t some ancient archaeological artifact. This was probably made from someone who’d died recently. Someone with a name, a family, dreams that would never be fulfilled. And now they were hanging on a hook with a price tag.
What kind of world is this?
He forced himself to look away, focusing instead on something less horrifying: a simple leather pouch that seemed to glow faintly from within. Surely that was harmless.
Identify.
[Item: Coin Purse] Standard leather construction. Contains multiple currency types. Minor enchantment prevents casual theft.
Finally. Something normal. Well, normal-ish.
The anti-theft enchantment was actually clever. Probably saved a lot of trouble for whoever owned it. But even this mundane item raised questions. What kind of society casually enchanted their wallets? How common was magic here? How expensive?
I should ask someone. Actually talk to these people instead of just scanning everything like a grocery store checkout.
But the thought of starting conversations with strangers who casually sold bottled memories and bone jewelry made his chest tighten. Using Identify was easier. Safer. No judgment, no social awkwardness, no risk of saying the wrong thing.
But as he grew more confident with the ability, something else caught his attention. A wiry, cloaked figure hunched by a brazier nearby, moving with an unsettling, angular grace. Something about them set his nerves on edge. Too thin, too sharp, like a praying mantis that had learned to walk upright.
Not human. Definitely not human.
The realization should have shocked him more. A week ago, the strangest thing in his life had been choosing between generic and name-brand cereal. Now he was casually identifying non-human entities in interdimensional markets.
When did I become so accepting of the impossible?
Maybe it was the depression. Maybe when you’d already given up on the world making sense, it was easier to roll with the punches. Or maybe his brain was just protecting itself by treating everything like an elaborate dream.
Curiosity overrode caution. “Let’s see what you are,” he whispered, focusing on the creature.
[Subroutine Ping] Target complexity exceeds threshold. Entity unreadable. Recommend... distance.
A chill crawled across his spine. The voice hadn’t just failed; it had actively warned him. That was new. And terrifying.
What could be so dangerous that even my magical cheat sheet tells me to run?
The creature’s head turned slightly, as if sensing his scrutiny. For a moment, Dex caught a glimpse of eyes like oil spills reflecting starlight. Ancient. Hungry. Aware.
He looked away quickly, pulse hammering.
Then another ping, sharper and more insistent:
[Threshold breach detected. Failure analysis complete. Re-calibrating parameters...]
[Skill Rank Up: Identify - Rank 2] Error patterns integrated. You learn more from what you cannot see.
Great. I leveled up by almost getting myself killed by something too dangerous to identify. That’s either ironic or just really, really stupid.
The rank-up felt different from the first skill acquisition. Heavier. Like whatever was doing this was settling deeper into his brain, making itself at home in ways that probably weren’t healthy.
So I’m being watched, graded, and upgraded by something. And it just learned from my mistakes. Wonderful.
The thought that whatever was behind the skill was adaptive, that it was learning from his behavior and adjusting accordingly, was somehow more disturbing than the bone jewelry and memory potions combined.
A cough to his left broke his focus. An older vendor, pale eyes sunken but sharp, was watching him with the calculation of someone measuring threat versus opportunity.
“You new to this layer?” the man asked, voice like the last page of something that should have been burned.
Dex hesitated, the question felt loaded. Not just curiosity, but evaluation. “You could say that. I’m looking for someone. A dog, actually. Mid-sized, black fur, loyal to a fault. Name’s Mira.”
The vendor scratched at his chin, and Dex caught the glint of something metallic embedded beneath the nail. “Dog, eh? Not many survive long in Vilestrand. Too many hungry people, too many things that hunt. When did you last see her?”
The question hit harder than expected. Dex tried to swallow the knot forming in his throat, but it stuck there like broken glass. Mira had been his anchor, the one thing that dragged him out of bed when the world felt too heavy to face. And now, when it was his turn to keep her safe, he’d let go. The thought carved through his numbness like a blade finding bone.
He felt his jaw tighten. “Not long enough to give up on her.”
The man studied him for another beat, reading something in his expression that Dex wasn’t sure he wanted shared. Then he pointed down the street with a finger that clicked faintly when it moved. “If she made it anywhere, she’d have gone toward the food stalls down that way. Nice smells and all. But if she was alone...”
He didn’t finish the sentence. The weight of it hung between them like smoke.
Dex gave a curt nod and turned to follow the suggested direction, boots striking the uneven stones with growing urgency. The thought of Mira alone, lost, or possibly worse made something deep inside him recoil. Not just fear. Something sharper. The air around him seemed to thicken, pressure building like the moment before lightning strikes.
A new system ping echoed in his head, quieter this time.
[Subroutine Ping] Emotional resonance detected. Void proximity increasing. Logged.
He stopped, bitterness twisting in his gut. “Fantastic. Now my basic social skills are getting participation trophies. If I manage eye contact, do I get a merit badge?”
But the wrongness lingered. Reality felt brittle around the edges, like someone had swapped it out for a cheaper version while he wasn’t looking. His thoughts slowed for a moment, the weight of guilt settling in like ash after a fire. What if Mira really was gone? What if he’d failed the one creature that refused to give up on him? Part of him wanted to sprint toward the stalls, hope blazing like a flare. But the other part, colder and heavier, couldn’t shake the fear of finding nothing. Or worse, finding something broken.
He took a deep breath and pressed on. He wasn’t ready to grieve. Not yet. Not until hope had been completely wrung out. “Right,” he muttered. “Time to either find her or lose myself trying.”
A distant bark snapped Dex’s head up.
Not just any bark. Familiar pitch. Urgent. Mira.
That’s her. That’s actually her.
For one brilliant, stupid moment, the weight in his chest lifted. Hope hit him like a drug, flooding his system with something he’d forgotten he could feel. His pulse hammered against his ribs as if trying to escape, and suddenly the world wasn’t quite so gray around the edges.
He broke into a jog, ignoring the startled glances of passersby. His boots skidded slightly on the uneven stone as he turned a corner into a side alley, heart pounding, hope clawing past reason.
Another bark, closer now.
“Mira!” he shouted.
He nearly collided with a crate as he barreled around the next bend, and there she was.
Except it wasn’t her.
A shaggy, soot-covered mutt, half-starved and wild-eyed, growled low as it backed into a crumbling alcove. Dex froze, heart lurching, breath catching in his throat.
Of course it’s not her. Of course.
The hope didn’t just die. It curdled, turning toxic in his bloodstream. This was worse than not finding anything at all. This was the universe dangling salvation in front of him, letting him taste it, then yanking it away like a schoolyard bully. The disappointment hit with physical force, a punch to the solar plexus that left him gasping.
“Not you,” he whispered, the words hitching, as if admitting it out loud might make it easier. It didn’t.
Is this how it’s going to be? Every stray dog, every distant bark, every shadow that might be her? How long before hope becomes just another way to hurt myself?
The dog bared its teeth, hackles raised, and Dex took a step back, more out of respect than fear. He knew the feeling. The desperate, cornered look of something just trying to survive in a world that had forgotten how to be kind.
We’re both strays now, aren’t we?
Before he could turn away, the shadows moved.
Three figures emerged from the far end of the alley, rough-spun coats, glinting blades, faces wrapped in bandages and soot. Their eyes, what little was visible, gleamed with the hungry calculation of predators who’d found something soft and unguarded. The dog, seeing new company, skittered away into the labyrinth of refuse.
Dex’s throat constricted. His hands started to shake, not from fear exactly, but from the sudden understanding that this wasn’t a conversation he could deflect with sarcasm. These weren’t people; they were problems with knives.
So this is how it ends. Not with a whimper, but with a mugging.
“Look what wandered in,” one said, voice oily with false courtesy. “Fresh tunic. Clean boots. Out-of-layer trash don’t usually come gift-wrapped.”
Dex raised his hands instinctively. “Not looking for trouble.”
“No soot, no steel, no mark,” another sneered, unsheathing a jagged blade that looked like it had been forged from spite and tetanus. “You walk like a surface crawler, but you smell like you just got born.”
Dex’s eyes flicked to the shadows, calculating. No exits. No backup. No Mira.
This is it. This is actually it.
The thought should have terrified him. For a moment, it almost didn’t. There was something familiar about facing the inevitable, like he’d been practicing for this moment his whole life. Every morning he’d woken up knowing he was inadequate, knowing he’d disappoint someone. Maybe this was just the final confirmation.
But then the real terror hit. Not the fear of dying, but the fear of dying now. With everything unfinished. With Mira still missing, still lost, still depending on him to find her. What if she was here, somewhere in this maze of stone and shadow, waiting for him to come? What if she was hurt, trapped, calling for him while he bled out in some forgotten alley?
I can’t die. Not like this. Not without knowing.
The desperation wasn’t about living, it was about failing. Again. But this time, failing someone who had never failed him. The one creature who’d seen him at his worst and still wagged her tail when he walked through the door.
The air pressure dipped, like a thunderstorm about to break. One of the thugs hesitated, blinking hard as if clearing his vision. Reality shimmered at the edges. Not like heat, but like the world itself had flinched.
What the hell?
Something was wrong with the air, wrong with the light, wrong with the way sound carried. It felt like standing inside a glitch, like reality was buffering.
[Subroutine Ping] Threshold approaching. Stability... unconfirmed.
Dex’s pulse thundered in his ears. The message landed like a diagnosis he didn’t have the vocabulary to interpret. Whatever was happening to him, it was accelerating. His desperation was feeding something, and that something was feeding back.
I’m not just losing my mind. I’m weaponizing it.
The brief confusion gave him a heartbeat to steel himself, ready to run or fight, but the knowledge that his emotional state could apparently bend reality made everything feel less solid, less certain.
The leader scowled, as if annoyed at his own hesitation. He tightened his grip on the knife, but before he could close the distance, the heavy clank of boots broke through the tension.
Layer Wardens.
A bright, crackling light seared down the alley from the far end: a sigil-flare, casting harsh shadows that made everyone look like criminals caught in the act.
“Oi! City guard! Break it up!”
Armor clanked. Voices barked orders. The thugs hissed curses and bolted into the shadows like roaches fleeing sudden light.
Dex collapsed to a knee, pulse pounding, the strange pressure in the air dissipating like smoke.
What the hell was that?
His hands were shaking, not from the near-mugging but from whatever had just happened to reality around him. The air felt normal again, but the memory of it buckling and warping made his skin crawl. The system ping echoed in his head like an unwelcome reminder that something fundamental had changed inside him. Something that could apparently affect the world around him when he was desperate enough.
Fear and desperation. Right. So my emotional breakdowns are now a feature, not a bug.
He tried to push himself back up, but his legs felt unsteady. Not from exhaustion, but from the growing realization that he wasn’t just lost in a strange world anymore. He was becoming something else in it.
A tall figure in grey-black armor loomed over him, half their face obscured by a narrow mask etched with glowing runes. Their body language screamed bureaucratic irritation mixed with professional competence.
“You’re either stupid... or important. Let’s find out which.”
Dex wiped sweat from his forehead and looked up, eyes squinting at the armored figure.
“Would it help if I said ‘thank you,’ or are we past civility at this point?”
The guard’s tone was flat enough to shave stone. “You talk too much for someone who nearly got knifed by rat-tier trash.”
“I talk when I’m nervous. You’d rather I hyperventilate?”
Another guard stepped into view, shorter, bulkier, and with a cudgel resting lazily against his shoulder. His armor showed more wear, more patches, the kind that came from years of disappointment rather than combat. “This one’s clean. Not tagged, not flagged. Surface traces, but no record.”
The first guard crouched, studying Dex with the clinical interest of someone evaluating livestock. “Name?”
Dex hesitated. In his experience, giving your real name to authority figures in strange dimensions rarely ended well. But lying seemed like it would end worse. And honestly, what was the point? He’d just discovered he could warp reality with his emotional state, been nearly mugged by locals, and was now being questioned by armored bureaucrats. His day had officially moved beyond the realm of damage control.
Might as well be honest. Can’t get much worse than ‘reality-bending emotional wreck lost in interdimensional fantasy land.’
“Dex.”
“Short for?”
“Dex.” He managed a weak grin. “It’s not deep.”
The guards exchanged glances, a wordless conversation that probably involved speculation about his intelligence, sanity, or both.
The bulkier one snorted. “Let’s take him in. Surface type goes wandering into Vilestrand and survives a mugging by luck and sarcasm? Either he’s worth something, or he’s trouble looking for a place to happen.”
“Or both,” the first replied.
Dex sighed. “I’m exhausted and I nearly got mugged. Can we table the ominous speculation?”
They didn’t answer. A sigil was triggered with a subtle flick of the first guard’s wrist. Glowing chains shimmered around Dex’s wrists before he could protest, binding him with threads of light that felt uncomfortably warm against his skin.
Dex stared at the restraints, then up at the guards. He should probably be more upset about being detained by interdimensional law enforcement. Instead, he felt something that might have been relief. For the first time since arriving here, someone else was making the decisions. Someone else was taking responsibility for what happened next.
At least they might have answers. And maybe they’ll explain what the hell just happened to me.
He’d been stumbling around this place blind, desperate, and increasingly unstable. Maybe being in custody wasn’t the worst thing that could happen. Maybe these people could tell him where he was, what was wrong with him, and if there was any chance Mira was actually here.
“Voluntary detainment,” the guard muttered with the enthusiasm of someone reading a grocery list. “Walk on your own or get dragged. Either way, you’re coming with us.”
Dex stood up slowly, testing the weight of the glowing chains. “Lead the way. I’ve got questions, and you’ve probably got answers. Seems like we can help each other.”