Rafe sat at a table with Su’Arian, watching the adventurers rouse their fellows and inform them of his instructions. He wouldn't leave these ruffians in Su’Arian’s tavern. He would at least make sure she didn't lose that.

  “These people…these Wildes? They are why you have been hiding here all these months?”

  He didn't know why she hadn't asked about the Ellans instead, but then she'd always been smart.

  “Yes,” he said with a sigh. “I didn't know how to face them.”

  “Now you know how,” she said, not a question. “Will you stay with them, after everything is dealt with?”

  He knew what she was asking. He knew, but he didn't know what to say. It wasn't a real world. They were all going to die anyway.

  “I don't know if everything will be dealt with, Su’Arian. There is an emerald to consider.”

  “You're not coming back, are you?” she eyed the table, her hands fidgeting with her skirt underneath it.

  Rafe didn't want to answer her. He didn't know how to answer her. He couldn't comfort her with a lie.

  She jumped over the table suddenly. Rafe reeled back a bit, but he hadn't gotten far before her hands had his head in a vice grip. She kissed him on the lips, and Rafe melted. She was soft when he touched her body. Somehow he'd thought she'd be a bit harder, rougher, what with her rough tongue and everything.

  She broke off first, looking at him with rosy cheeks, panting to regain her breath. He didn't know what expression he was making, but he was stunned silent. She didn't give him time to collect himself before she stood and started to rush away from him.

  “To remember me by,” she said as she walked off.

  Rafe started to follow, started to call out her name. Someone grabbed his arms, their hands rough and wrinkled, bathed in time. The old lady, the village storykeeper. She shook her head at him, her other hand pointing outside where the last of the rogue adventurers were limping out of the tavern.

  Rafe walked out of the tavern, not looking back once.

  ****

  He looked South and East first, back towards Hossford city, back towards the Wilde village, and further South from that, back to where he'd fought in a war he didn't remember too much of. They were frantic days, those, fighting every single day, watching his squad mates die. Rafe sighed.

  He allowed himself one last longing look. Then he about-faced and headed West. He didn't know where he was going. He'd never been to Grayward City. But he knew there was a red lake or something of the sort.

  It didn't really have red water, or blood for that matter. There was apparently a mineral there, batzite. It was a red crystal, very reflective. It was illegal to mine in the red lake, mostly because it polluted the environment, according to science.

  Rafe found it hilarious when people in such a medieval world talked about science and the like. They were just so far behind even the simplest technology on earth, it wasn't even funny. But then this world, at least according to Noid, was based on his memories from before the system became a thing.

  Rafe thought about it, as he had nothing to do for most of his journey but think. Noid had always made sure to drum it into him that this world was not representative of the current state of the multiverse. This world and the other trial worlds the other Skyholms had built, were just meant to give those daring to challenge fate a second chance.

  Those that by accident, or design, tackled dangerous dungeons, odds so far against them there was every chance they would die. The driven ones. Either personally, or by fate, in lieu of accidental entry. Those were the ones who'd go on to achieve great things in the multiverse, and maybe one of the thousands may rise to become another Skyholm.

  “But, I would think in a multiverse, with say…a billion worlds —” Noid snorted at the estimation, but Rafe ignored him and continued. “In a multiverse with infinite worlds, at least a few million people are dying in dungeons even as we speak.”

  Noid had frowned, Rafe remembered, probably wondering if he should tell him or not. In the end, he'd decided to relent.

  “We are just Soul remnants, boy. We aren't the only ones even at this moment handing out trials. There are not a billion of us, however. So obviously some unlucky souls slip through the cracks. Besides, ours isn't the only legacy out there. One of very few legacy trials, sure, but not the only legacy.

  “Although, since we are a pantheon of guardians from way before the system, and considering the other guardians never passed their mantles on, I'd say ours might just be the pinnacle legacy of the multiverse. And of course, you have to consider who crafted the legacy too.”

  “So these other legacy trials also save people very close to death?”

  “No. That is just a Skyholm thing, because of Ah-Riam. You remember the first thing you saw when you entered the void?”

  “The broken boy?”

  “The very same. That was how Skyholm was born, and that was how Ah-Riam decided we'd try to find our next member, even without a mantle.”

  “Wait, wait. Let's get back. These unlucky ones you talked about? They what, just die?”

  Noid shrugged, but he never once took his eyes off Rafe.

  “I did mention something about fate, didn't I? We cannot save everyone. If you're unlucky, then you are ill-fated. That is all. I would also like to remind you, that these trials have a not quite a hundred percent success rate.”

  “Remind me? You've never told me anything about it.”

  Noid blinked at him like an old man who'd forgotten what he'd had for breakfast. It looked unnatural coming from his prepubescent face.

  “Right, you had the memory issue. You weren't even briefed before entering my trial, which would normally lead to serious mental health issues, but in your case, well…”

  Noid cleared his throat to bring his floating mind back to task.

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

  “The thing that saved the first Skyholm, I can't say much about it, but it is the only way to save an already deteriorating body thrust into the void. It doesn't hurt that as it was part of the first Skyholm’s legacy, it was naturally deeply integrated with the mantle of Skyholm, so all of us had it, in some form or other.

  “Some souls, unfortunately, reject the soul grafting process. Some people have soul damage so severe that even the soul architect can't heal them, and some have soul mutations, plain incompatible souls, innate abilities. For whatever reason, some people can't accept the graft, and therefore their bodies waste away ever so slowly in the void. We can't save everyone,” he repeated with a sigh of regret.

  Rafe had no idea why he was thinking about these memories now. It was probably because he knew, even if he was trying not to think about it, that soon he'd be leaving the trial, heading into the multiverse alone. Was he trying to hype himself up, build expectations of hundreds, thousands more worlds to explore? Maybe even a few more legacies, if they were about swords.

  He had tried asking about the other legacies Noid had mentioned, the ones that weren't trials. Noid had just scoffed, saying something about them just being glorified puzzle boxes. It was all very intriguing, right until Rafe remembered he hadn't cared about any of this crap the last twenty five years. All he'd had to do was fight, all he had to think about was the next fight, all he'd had to plan was the next fight.

  Now he had to think about his life again and he didn't like it one bit. Much better to just think about random tidbits Noid had mentioned.

  He started to think about their talks on concepts again, going through the insights he thought he would unlock once he left the void. Then he heard them, the rushing horses, the travelers scrambling to get off the path and towards the woods he was using to shadow the road.

  They didn't get deep enough to see him, but Rafe kept a wary eye nonetheless. And that was when he noticed a familiar fiery aura. He'd once asked Noid if aura was a skill the system provided, and the man had just grumbled that everything was a skill or ability the system gave. The fiery aura of Jasmine Redwyne, an adventurer he'd traveled with once when he was taking his test for admission to the adventurer's guild.

  He hadn't been close with her back then, but Orlandir had been trying to date her so he knew enough. That was also why he hadn't noticed the other two auras with her, one a pure light aura, and one of controlled destruction. Cynthia and Rhea, he concluded.

  It was strange they were together. From what he could remember, the last two times he'd seen the women interact was when something connected to him occurred, like that one night he'd gone on a rampage. And surely something similar was happening right then because they were being chased. Rafe’s hand shot to his sword hilt unbidden, a small smile growing on his face. Nothing like a good fight to get out of his head.

  “A small prequel?” he questioned the sky even as he crouched and took off after the horses and trailing raptors.

  His stats had grown, even though he couldn't check them at the moment. He could run, fast. He could keep up with a raptor. And being as he wasn't on the main road, he could set an intercept course, ambushing them when they least expected it.

  He ran. They ran. He saw them ahead, following the curve of the road. They couldn't use an intercept route like him because the woods were a little elevated. It gave him enough time to launch himself up and into the raptors. He might have modified his heaviest hitting technique for speed, but momentum was momentum, according to the little physics he remembered.

  His blade cleaved right through a man's right shoulder, setting him to howling as he fell off his out-of-control raptor. He had been attempting not to kill anyone before he had a clear picture but landing among them, seeing some holding already notched crossbows, they weren't the friendly sort. He didn't feel sorry for the man being stomped on by his comrades.

  He got ready to use his heavy blow skill. He was not in a sparring match today, after all. The Revered Sword Saint's sword barrage. Rafe hadn't been able to get it to the level Jonathan had, where he could make it seem like you were facing a hundred swordsmen at once. He did not have a concept to aid him, after all. What he did have though, was hundreds of hours worth of practice, raining blows as if he were ten swordsmen instead of one, infused with his heavy blow skill.

  Even having been caught off guard, he only managed to take out four before the other five reorganized. Of those five, three had been holding crossbows, and it wasn't hard to make them irrelevant. Two immediately scrambled to change weapons but after Rafe was rebuffed by a surviving tank, he decided to change tacks.

  He attacked their mounts, diving low with well-aimed cuts at vital joints on their legs. They were bipedal, after all, so it wasn't hard to get them to collapse. He smiled, Rafe did, as the shield wielder was the slowest to respond to the threat, getting one of his legs crushed as the raptor went down with him. Rafe attacked his exposed neck without hesitation. And then there were four.

  Not even giving them a chance to react, he sheathed his sword and moved both hands at the same time to grab his twin blades. He'd decided to make them smaller, almost like big daggers, their blades shaped like flames in irregular patterns for the sake of coolness.

  Two swordsmen faced him, a mage, and maybe an assassin. He wasn't sure. The man was keeping his crossbow close to hand, though he had armed himself with two daggers now. The mage cast a spell even as Rafe ran to cut her in half. One of the swordsmen intercepted him though, faster than Rafe believed he should have been. He was shining, a golden aura shimmering around him. When their swords clashed, Rafe found himself bouncing off an impeccable rock, the recoil shocking his arms even as he hopped back out of range.

  He studied his opponents again. A buff, he concluded. It had to be. So he was dealing with a strong support mage. That was disturbing. It was even more disquieting a second later when a spell hit him in his distracted state. In his defense, if it had been a firestorm, or a lightning strike, or a blast of void, or an arcane orb, he'd have reacted on instinct and evaded it the best he could.

  This seemed almost like healing magic, peaceful, tranquil, non-threatening. He tried to charge in again, but for the first time in a long time felt clumsy. His body was flexible, easy to control, normally at least. That was his biggest advantage, what his whole fighting style was based on. Now he was slow, heavy, ponderous.

  He could still follow the movements of the two melee fighters as they charged him. He thought, he thought fast, he thought for the first time in a long time. He never thought in combat. This time he had to plan, to come up with a way to survive. He didn't know how many more deaths the trial could take if it was already running out of gas.

  He timed his move well, getting his blades up in a cross over his head just in time to be pushed back and down instead of being cut in half.

  He landed on his back, then started to roll sideways immediately, his instincts from many battles saving him just before a crossbow bolt would have skewered him through the gut. He hadn't forgotten about the assassin.

  He didn't abort his roll as the swordsmen kept after him. He decided to emulate some of the old martial artists he'd seen in movies back on earth and keep on fighting from the ground, evading them in a comic way he hoped would frustrate them.

  The numbers favoured them though. He paid too much attention to the swords, a sudden kick to the gut reminding him of why that was a terrible idea. He only allowed the pain to distract him for a moment, as used as he was to far worse.

  Still, the moment was enough for the second swordsman to launch his foot too, crunching his nose and sending his neck so far back it was a miracle it wasn't broken immediately. He was stunned. He couldn't have been out for more than a few moments, though, because he hadn't been killed yet.

  He found a foot planted firmly on his chest, probably to belay his flailing like an uncatchable fish. The man had his sword held in both hands, tip aimed toward Rafe's hands, getting ready to thrust downwards. Then he stumbled a little. Rafe felt the weakness, the lethargy leave his body.

  Before they were back in top form, he was already cutting upwards, cutting into one man's calf. As he screamed and fell away, Rafe rolled until he was sure he had enough distance to survey the field. The second swordsman was already trying to run, seeing as things had changed. As if Rafe could let him. It wasn't a conventional technique, but Rafe had been practicing a sword-throwing technique as a kind of last-ditch long-range move if he didn't develop such a concept ability.

  And the short swords he was holding were almost daggers. He took the man right in the area he'd expect the kidney, and the man stumbled and fell. He was still alive, and magic made people harder to kill. He got up and tried to keep running but he wasn't fast enough to escape Rafe. The screaming man suddenly quieted, and Rafe turned to face the new arrival, the spear wielder he'd once known. She hadn't changed as much as he would have expected her to in thirty years, but then, magic.

  “...Celene,” he breathed.