Utopianna knelt at the center of the ritual space, her usually serene expression taut with something just shy of desperation. A fine sheen of perspiration clung to her brow, the dim candlelight glistening off her skin. The floral embroidery on her robes, vibrant as a midsummer garden, was damp at the collar, evidence of the strain she would never voice aloud. Around her, the sacred ingredients lay in careful arrangement, their presence deliberate, their meanings layered in centuries of ritual and understanding.
The Ever-Sealed Seed rested in her open palm, its shell smooth and unbroken, unbothered by time. This was the core of the Blooming Omen—a seed that would only germinate when fate aligned with growth, possibility, and a future unchoked by stagnation. A sprouting seed meant renewal, change that led forward. A dead seed meant decay. A cracked seed, lifeless but split, meant something was breaking apart beyond repair.
These seeds were not easily obtained. They did not grow in any known soil, nor could they be plucked from an ordinary plant. Instead, they were discovered—unearthed in forgotten places, found nestled within the bark of ancient, sentient trees, or gifted by those who glimpsed the threads of fate themselves. Some said they were plucked from the dreams of sleeping gods. Others claimed they only appeared when a question was truly worth asking. Utopianna had always gathered hers with patience, following subtle omens that led her to where they might be waiting. But patience was a luxury she no longer had.
She thought back to one of her earliest searches, when she and Bahumbus had uncovered whispers of a cache of Ever-Sealed Seeds hidden deep within the ruins of a forgotten temple. The clues had been layered in half-truths and riddles, but after weeks of research, they had traced a lead to a grove on the outskirts of the Eastern Wilds. Excited by the prospect of securing a long-term source of the seeds, they had set off at once, driven by the thrill of discovery.
When they arrived, however, their excitement crumbled into frustration. There was no cache, no hidden trove—only a single, gaudily wrapped bundle hanging from the branch of a gnarled old tree. Bahumbus, ever the skeptic, had cut it down with a flick of his artificer’s tool, and out tumbled a collection of dried beans, painted gold and carefully arranged to look mystical. A crude note was tucked inside, barely containing its laughter: "Looks like the prophecy was bunk! Better luck next time, stinkers!"
They had been duped by none other than Stinky Malinky, who had clearly enjoyed watching them chase after a myth. Utopianna had fumed, Bahumbus had laughed until he was breathless, and Stinky, once found, had barely dodged a hailstorm of magically conjured hailstones. Even now, with everything so dire, the memory almost made her smile—almost.
She lowered the seed into the basin of Moonlit Dew, the water cool against her trembling fingers. The dew was collected on the first full moon of the season, infused with light that softened the barriers between what was known and what lay ahead. In spring, it shimmered with an eager luminescence, ripe with promise. In summer, it swirled with vibrant reflections, revealing depth and complexity. In autumn, it darkened, carrying whispers of caution. And in winter, it turned nearly still, cold and withholding, reluctant to offer insight.
Tonight, the water barely rippled. It sat heavy in the bowl, thick with reluctance.
Utopianna inhaled, trying to steady herself. The Starpetal Incense burned beside her, its blue-tinted smoke curling through the air. Traditionally, its motion was a guide—smooth and fluid when fate was aligned, sharp and jagged when deception clouded the way. But the smoke tonight was neither. It swirled in slow, uneven circles, a spiral without a center. She had never seen it behave this way before.
The Starpetal flowers were incredibly rare, blooming only once every seven years beneath the glow of a moonless sky. Their petals, fragile as silk and shimmering with an otherworldly sheen, had to be gathered swiftly before the dawn stole their potency. Utopianna had spent long nights in remote glades and forgotten ruins, waiting for the moment they unfurled. Once plucked, the petals had to be carefully dried and ground into incense before they turned brittle and useless. Every batch she prepared was meant to last until the next blooming, and as she glanced at the dwindling pile of incense beside her, she realized how little remained.
The living vines she wove into a perfect ring around her ritual space were wilting. They were never supposed to wilt—their vitality was meant to signify the interwoven nature of time, each moment laced with the next in an endless, fluid connection. But tonight, the vines turned limp before she even finished braiding them. The woven circle was still whole, but sickly. Even the plants seemed to sense something was wrong.
She had procured these particular vines from the ruins of an ancient observatory, where they had climbed the crumbling walls for centuries, untouched by human hands. They had twined themselves around the remnants of forgotten star charts, their growth patterns eerily aligned with celestial movements. When she first harvested them, the vines had pulsed with life, their emerald tendrils reacting to her touch as if aware of their purpose. Now, they lay limp in her hands, their once-tenacious grip on existence faltering.
Finally, she reached for the Whispering Parchment.
It was a single, pristine sheet, smooth as silk, pulped from an ancient, still-living tree. When the ritual was complete, the parchment would bear a message—sometimes a single word, sometimes only a vague symbol, and often, nothing at all. It was rare for fate to speak in anything more than whispers, rarer still for the parchment to shape full sentences. Yet now, it was not only speaking—it was writing, insistently, deliberately, and with a certainty that chilled her. She had come to expect ambiguity, for fate rarely spoke in absolutes. But she had always been able to find meaning in its guidance.
She placed the parchment beside the basin, brushing her fingers over its surface as she whispered the final invocation, her voice carrying a melody not unlike the wind through leaves. The words settled into the air like seeds cast upon fertile ground.
The parchment darkened.
A single phrase inked itself across its surface in a hand that was not her own.
"The first sign of a doomed king: He believes only he can save the world."
Utopianna shuddered.
This was not the first time she had seen a message like this.
She lifted the parchment, her breath shallow, her heart thundering against her ribs. It was the same warning, the same dreadful omen, written in the same unfamiliar script. Not hers. Not the ritual's usual hand. Not fate as she had always known it.
Her fingers trembled as she reached for the next seed.
Again.
She would do it again.
Her ritual supplies were running low. She had almost exhausted her store of Ever-Sealed Seeds, and the Moonlit Dew was down to its final bowl. She would need to wait until the next full moon to replenish it—but she couldn’t wait. She needed a different answer.
She reset the circle, weaving the frail, weakening vines anew. She inhaled the Starpetal smoke, its spirals closing in on themselves, refusing to lead her in any clear direction. She whispered the chant, but her voice cracked from overuse. She dropped the next Ever-Sealed Seed into the basin.
The seed cracked immediately, without sprouting. A hairline fracture split it down the center, leaking nothingness into the water.
The parchment inked itself before she even reached for it.
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
"He does not seek control, but what will stop him from taking it?"
She clenched her jaw, eyes stinging. Krungus. This was about Krungus. It had to be. The ritual was telling her, over and over, that something terrible was coming—something that could not be undone once set in motion.
She had never seen fate so insistent. Never seen it repeat itself like this, as though warning her wasn’t enough. As though it needed her to understand.
One more time.
She reached for another seed. She had to try again.
Again.
And again.
Eugene hesitated outside the tavern, rubbing the back of his neck. He wasn’t sure this would work—hell, he wasn’t even sure what 'working' meant. The interface didn’t tell him how to gain 'understanding,' which, as far as he could tell, functioned like experience points in a game. But unlike a traditional RPG, there was no clear quest log, no handy checklist of objectives that would guarantee a level-up. Understanding was murky, abstract, and frustratingly vague.
Could he gain it by fighting? Probably. But did he have to? That was the real question. The system wasn’t handing out answers, so he’d have to figure it out himself. He had a feeling—one he couldn’t shake—that this experiment might get him closer to an answer.
With a deep breath, he pushed the door open and stepped inside. The tavern was unlike anything Eugene had ever seen on Earth, yet perfectly mundane by the City of Cities’ standards. The ceiling stretched high, vaulted like a cathedral, held up by twisting beams that looked more like gnarled roots than carved wood. Floating lanterns bobbed gently through the air, glowing with a soft, golden light, their flames flickering despite the lack of any obvious fuel. The scent of roasting meats and spiced ale filled the air, undercut by something floral and faintly metallic—magic, maybe, or whatever counted as 'cleaning solution' in a world like this.
The tables weren’t uniform; some were carved from a single slab of dark stone, others looked like living wood, their edges curling as though they were still growing. Booths were separated by curtains of enchanted fabric that shimmered between transparency and deep, star-speckled black. The patrons were as varied as the décor—hulking ogres drinking from barrel-sized mugs, cloaked figures huddled in quiet conversation, a pair of goblins loudly arguing over a piece of parchment that may or may not have been a treasure map. A massive, bird-like humanoid sat alone, delicately sipping a drink from an ornate goblet, its keen eyes watching the room with quiet calculation.
Eugene tried not to gawk. This place wasn’t unique here, but it was so alien to him that it made every bar in Cincinnati seem laughably mundane. Even the barkeep was something out of a fever dream—a squat, four-armed being with a face like a grinning mask, efficiently pouring drinks with two hands while flipping a coin through the fingers of another.
Eugene had a mission tonight, a little game he'd devised for himself: how much free stuff could he get without directly asking for it?
He had been mulling over something Hazel Fortuna had explained to him about the idea of Coincidence: he couldn’t force it. Coincidence didn’t work like pulling a lever; it wasn’t a trick to be mastered with sheer will. It had to be felt, invited, allowed. That was the problem, though. He was a planner by nature, a schemer. He was a Dungeon Master for Pete's sake. He wanted control. But maybe, just maybe, he could learn to let go a little.
His first attempt was subtle. He positioned himself near a group of city guards—three of them, wearing dented helmets and blue tabards emblazoned with the city’s sigil. They were nursing tankards of something dark and frothy, their boots kicked up against the wooden beam beneath the table. Eugene cleared his throat, leaned back in his chair, and spoke just loud enough for them to overhear.
"Yeah, lost my whole coin purse somewhere near here. Must’ve slipped right out of my pocket. Damn shame, too—I was planning on getting a real meal tonight."
He tilted his head, feigning casual frustration, and waited for the hook to catch. Nothing. The guards barely glanced his way. One, a burly man with a scar running down his jaw, shot him a side-eye before turning back to the others.
"I’m telling you, he had the whole deck palmed. You can’t trust ogres, especially ones that call themselves 'Honest Jarrik.'"
"That’s not proof," said the second guard, a younger woman with short-cropped hair. "Jarrik’s just a bad cheater."
Eugene deflated slightly. He had expected at least a sympathetic nod, maybe a shared grumble about the dangers of city living. Instead, he was completely ignored, left adrift while they launched into a heated debate over whether Honest Jarrik was just bad at sleight of hand or if his massive fingers made it impossible.
Fine. Time for a new approach.
He moved to the bar, nodding amicably at the bartender. He waited for someone to get a drink bought for them, hoping to ride the wave of generosity. Nothing. A man in a wide-brimmed hat got two rounds bought for him, and Eugene could swear he was just some guy, not even that interesting. Meanwhile, Eugene sat there, unsponsored and increasingly perplexed.
Hours passed like this. He loosened his approach, letting himself wander between groups, talking, laughing, getting into the rhythm of the place. It reminded him—just a little—of Cincinnati. He hadn’t had a ton of friends, but there had been nights when they’d hit the bars together, sometimes looking for girls, sometimes just trying to forget about work.
Was time passing back on Earth? Was he going to wake up one day back on the floor of the Blockbuster, his head pounding, wondering if he had just hallucinated all of this? Or had he been ripped from his life entirely, like a tape yanked out of a VCR mid-play?
He sighed and shook the thought away. No answers tonight. He stopped angling so hard for free drinks and started playing dice with a table of miners. That was when it happened.
The bartender—without so much as a glance in Eugene’s direction—set a basket of lumpy, twisted pastries in front of him. He blinked. He hadn’t ordered anything. He looked around. Nobody seemed to notice or acknowledge it.
He reached out, plucked one up, took a bite. Salty, a little sweet, dense but good. Like a mutant pretzel. It wasn’t a drink, but it was something. Something freely given, even if not what he had expected.
[Interface Update]
+20 Understanding gained for receiving food freely given.
Eugene froze mid-chew, his mind racing. That was it? That counted? He swallowed hastily, staring at the notification as it lingered in his vision before fading away. His experiment had worked, albeit in a way he hadn’t expected. Understanding wasn’t just about battle, about grand gestures or sweeping revelations. It could come from small things, from subtle shifts in perception, from moments where he simply let the world act upon him instead of trying to force it.
A slow grin spread across his face. This was a game he could play.
And then he got it.
He wasn’t supposed to aim for the free drink. He wasn’t supposed to dictate the shape of the coincidence. It would come how it came. His job was to be present for it, to recognize it when it happened, not to try and mold it into his expectations.
Eugene chewed thoughtfully, glancing at the lumpy pretzels. A small lesson, but a lesson nonetheless. Next time, he’d be a little less rigid. A little more open.
Maybe then, the City would surprise him.
A deep chuckle from the corner drew his attention. The bird-like humanoid raised its goblet in a slow, knowing salute before taking a sip. Eugene wasn’t sure what that meant, but it sent a shiver down his spine. Maybe, just maybe, he was being watched.
[Interface Update]
+85 Understanding gained for contributing to events that led to a new, rare coincidence.
[LEVEL UP!]
Eugene Calhoun – Level 4 Hospitality Warlock
New Ability Unlocked: Choose one hospitality-themed ability to add to your arsenal.
Bonus Ability Unlocked: You gained this for being too powerful for the 'regular' options.
Fortunate Rebuke: A mild but unpredictable offensive spell. When struck, the caster can reflexively unleash a burst of misfortune upon their attacker—causing their weapon to slip, their footing to falter, or their next action to go awry.
Guiding Whispers: A divination spell that allows the caster to attune themselves to the hidden currents of fate. Once per day, they can receive an intuitive nudge toward a beneficial action, a warning about unseen danger, or insight into an unfolding event.
Sheltering Presence: A defensive ability that manifests as an unseen barrier of warmth and safety. When allies are near, they receive subtle but tangible protection—an enemy's blow might strike at just the wrong angle, an arrow might veer off course, or a sudden stroke of luck prevents harm.
Hospitality’s Reckoning (bonus option): The caster calls forth the full force of reciprocated goodwill and chance, sending arcs of golden lightning through every enemy who has wronged them or their allies. The bolts chain unpredictably, striking foes harder if they have committed more injustices, and subtly sparing those who have shown kindness. The final surge of power restores vitality to the caster’s allies, ensuring that fortune always favors the hospitable.
